Ebasit Kadan
by Witch ov the Forest
Summary: DAkink. Hawke spends most of her time at the compound to deal with the grief of her recent troubles and losses. Little does she know, this early connection with the Qunari will lead to a huge life change. Arishok/F!Hawke M!Qunari/F!Hawke. Sort of AU.
1. Chapter 1 Drunken Misdemeanours

It had been approximately three weeks since her mother had died in her arms, bloodied, ravaged, unduly tortured and disfigured by a madman. She had walked the streets at the midnight hour, the coastline at twilight, and watched the morning sun rise at the docks. She fulfilled errands, did some favours, and wandered by her own whim. No one had been able to find her until recently. No one knew how she had spent her days in mourning.

It had surprised her to learn that her friends had been spreading word of her absence; worried that they might have lost her. Anders had been vigilant, and knew of her return before any of her companions. Isabela was second to know, being a frequent patient of Anders'. The fiendish young woman was the one who initially whisked her off to The Hanged Man, prescribing Hawke a tankard of honey brew to drown her sadness. Hawke honestly didn't know if the pirate was being thoughtful, or if she wanted an excuse to share a couple of ales with someone, but Hawke chose to accept it as a good gesture. And here she was, drunk, breathing in the stale polluted air of Kirkwall's Lowtown, which she understandably preferred over the musty, salty stench of the tavern and it's regulars.

Dust pricked her burning eyes, the smell of moonshine, honey ale, and spiced wine heavy on her breath. She leaned against the wall of The Hanged Man, splinters and stones digging into her bare shoulders from the half abused, half rotted wood, brick, and what seemed to be plaster of the building's walls. Shadows slid from the edge of Hawke's vision, taunting and prodding as they danced under hazy lamp lights. She wore a long, soft, embroidered tunic which laced up in the front and back, a pair of doeskin knee-high boots, and some uncomfortably form-fitting leather breeches borrowed from Isabela. The absence of the familiar weight of her armour increased the dull ache which settled heavily within her heart.

Carver, dead. Bethany, caged. And now, the last person she held closest to her, senselessly murdered.

"_Mother." _Hawke bit her lip, her eyes brimming with tears; cursing herself before heaving a bottle of spiced wine to her lips and taking a long drink. She gasped for air after forcing down the rest of the bottle of firewater; her head rolled back to rest against the wall behind her, willing the tears to go away.

_She died with a smile on her face,_ Hawke thought, eyes distant with memory. _I saw her smile. I saw the spirit leave her body._

She moved to press the bottle to her lips for another swig, but found that it was empty. She sighed exasperatedly, and threw the bottle into the darkness, waiting for the inevitable sound of shattering glass. Instead, she heard a dull thud, and the sound of hardened leather flexing.

Hawke fell into defence mode almost instantly, her hands groping for her shield and blade. With a curse, she realised that she had left them at home, and settled for the diminutive dagger hidden in her boot. The form of a huge darkened figure moved just out of the lamp light's reach, but it's eyes glinted a deep crimson, somehow radiating their colour in the void. An angled face, curving horns, a shock of long, dark silver hair glinted as the figure moved to partially reveal himself.

Hawke's breath hitched in her throat. She did not know whether to stand down or hold position. Kirkwall was on the edge of war, it seemed, and she did not want to be responsible for a moment's drunken stupidity. Her mouth opened to utter an apology, and her head dipped in both greeting and supplication. "Forgive me-"

"Hawke, will you not drink with me? I bought you another pitcher and, be damned if I admit this, I wasn't expecting to drink it alone." Isabela sputtered, slamming the door of The Hanged Man roughly on its hinges before making an intoxicated entrance. "Hawke?"

Hawke turned on heel, tucking the dagger into one of her billowy sleeves. "Isabela." She stuttered, shifting on her feet awkwardly. She received an odd stare.

"Talking to shadows, are we?" Isabela laughed, her voice sounding like sharp chimes in a wind storm. "I never thought I'd see the day. Get back inside, we've got much more drinking to do." With that, she stumbled inside and slammed the door behind her.

Hawke heaved a sigh and spun on her heel once more, facing the shadows in which the figure had stood. After a long moment, her muscles loosened as no movement betrayed the man's presence. She ran her fingers through her hair and rolled her shoulder to loosen up the tendons there, pacing in front of the tavern door.

"Shanedan, Hawke. I did not expect to see you here." The figure stepped out into the lamplight, highlighting a toned, well-muscled body; strong, angular face, and a pair of large, curved ivory horns. The Qunari easily stood over a foot taller than she, and his blood-tinted eyes watched her closely as she drew in a short, surprised breath.

"Shanedan, Karasten. I am equally curious to see you away from the compound at this time of night." Hawke replied, a small sound of relief escaping her lips. This particular Karasten had become a friend of sorts over the past months. It was easy to remember him; his hair was a light sooty silver shade, his face younger and smoother-looking than most of his comrades, though his brow still creased in that unique Qunari way, an expression which caused a deep stirring of curiosity and a sort of respect from Hawke for all Qunari. It was not everyday that an individual thought beyond the mundane about his or her actions. It was something she shared in common with Karasten's people.

The Karasten watched her closely, his red eyes glistening in the flickering yellow light. He was holding a bladed staff firmly at his side, but Hawke knew that he meant no harm. The streets were never safe at night—and even though she had kept them clear for many a day, it was logical to stay vigilant. That, and the Karasten had always made his thoughts on his weapon clear—without it, he was useless to the Qun. His life relied on its safety and presence on his being. Without it, his life would be forfeit.

"You have not answered the Arishok's request for your presence." He rumbled, gesturing with his large, clawed hand to the place in which she stood. "It has been eight days."

Hawke paled and sweat suddenly glinted on her face. She had be courteous and helpful to the Arishok in the past, but she could tell the weight of the troubles he had been facing thus far had begun to weigh heavy on him. More than once she had been turned away at the gate by the guards, or snapped at in conversation. Considering the amount of calmness and patience he normal carried, she assumed he was nearly at a breaking point. She had, of course, almost willingly pushed her duties aside to keep the peace, because of her mother's death, but now she was beginning to regret it; especially since she was finding it hard to come up with an answer for the towering Qunari before her. Friend or not, the Karasten was a powerful, imposing figure. She didn't want to shame him.

"I've been dealing with personal matters. My mother was murdered, and I ignored any messages I received at my estate." Hawke replied, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I did not realise it was urgent enough to have you search for me at this hour."

Karasten's chest rumbled with a grunt. Hawke was unsure if he understood her, or if he had no other way of responding to her previous statement. She had a lot to learn about the Qun.

"It is my duty to fulfill the wishes of the Arishok and the Qun." He retorted, stepping towards her with measured grace. Hawke noted the gold-embroidered, red silk bands wrapped around the curves of his horns, the way the light glanced off the fire of his eyes and the gilt thread of his horn piece. The embellishment, as she recalled, didn't exist previously on his person. "And he still requests your presence, Basalit-an."

Hawke resisted the urge to back away. As much trouble as it would've caused in the future, she didn't want to listen to Arishok's problems and run about Kirkwall to thwart his ill-informed enemies. At least, he had asked her to do such things until the last few times she had visited. He merely seemed intent at having her at arm's length, recently. Hawke didn't know his reasons, but she didn't mind the Arishok's company or the company of other Qunari.

The clink of her thrown bottle at the Karasten's feet wrested her from her thoughts. _It probably wasn't such a good idea to throw that around, _she thought, realising she was still on a fading high from the enormous amount of alcohol she imbibed. _I shouldn't be doing this to myself._

"Basalit-an, listen." Karasten touched Hawke's arm with startling gentleness, startling her from her thoughts. "The Arishok is waiting."

Hawke looked up at her friend, and licked her dry lips. His eyes burned holes through her soul; unblinking, flaring with spirit and... something else? No. It wasn't the way of the Qun to show that sort of emotion... Or was it? Hawke had no way of knowing, but Karasten's closeness to her was proving otherwise. He smelled sickly sweet and spicy; he was warm, and she could feel the heat coming off of his glistening body. Hawke swallowed uncomfortably.

"If he requests my presence this very night, I will go to him." Hawke finally ground out. Karasten's grip on her arm did not relinquish, and her arm prickled as his hand slid down to grab her hand. His face remained stoic as ever, but Hawke caught a glimpse of some kind of emotion burning behind his crimson eyes before he turned and pulled her towards their destination.

"Then I shall take you to him."

Hawke felt a jolt run down her spine as the Karasten guided her towards the Qunari Compound. She was thankful no one was around to see them holding hands. She wasn't sure if he just did not want to lose her in the void of night, or if he was showing a very... Human gesture of affection. Either way, the wrong people witnessing such a simple act could trigger more trouble than it would be worth.


	2. Chapter 2 Bas Saarebas

I would like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed this story thus far. :) It means a lot to me. Please, don't be afraid to say something!

-JT

Golden light licked Hawke's squinted eyelids as she sat curled up against the wall, behind the Arishok's throne. Her Karasten companion stood nearby, his weapon in one hand, lamp in other; his back straight and eyes ever scanning the seemingly impenetrable courtyard. His hair, a slightly darker shade than most of his companions, was somewhat messy; strands of hair cascading over his brow, partially shielding his blood-tinted irises from Hawke's view. The rest of his hair fell like a waterfall to his lower back.

Hawke watched him silently, her mental gears turning for nothing but the moment. She had barely slept since her arrival; the Arishok was to be undisturbed, even when he had asked for her. So then her vigil had begun, and for a couple for hours it had relented until this moment.

The crackling and popping of new leather, and the tinking of silverite plates shook Hawke from her near-slumbering state. The Karasten beside her shifted his weight and growled absent-mindedly in greeting, under his breath, as a compliment of Karashok moved to relieve the others of their evening duties. "Shanedan."

The relief group simply bowed their heads to acknowledge the Karasten's presence, but their eyes flashed with confusion over the female bas' presence so deep into the night. Hawke watched them closely. Noted how each Qunari carried his own unique weapon; how their facial structures and horns singled them out as a specific individual within the group. She never understood the common quip that Qunari all looked alike; if anyone cast more than a sidelong glance at these creatures they would see that this was not so. Still, the fact that the Qunari intimidated most of those about them didn't ease the stereotype. Not many people would look their fears in the face.

"Has the Arishok changed his mind?" Hawke questioned, rubbing the grit from her eyes before standing; breaking free from her train of thought. "I was under the impression that my presence here was urgent."

The Karasten's heated gaze flicked to her form after a considerable pause. "The Arishok has not forgotten your presence. Patience is a lesson to be learned and accepted if you wish to learn the ways of the Qun." He drummed out in an even tone, leaning on his bladed staff. "Be patient, and you will be rewarded."

Hawke's brow furrowed, and she gripped the wall to aid herself as she stood. Her knees buckled, and her legs felt like limp noodles, seeming to scream for more rest. She cursed under her breath and stretched her legs. _No more binges like this, _she thought silently.

When her legs felt firm but languid, and less achy, Hawke retorted: "Patience is indeed a virtue. But, with all due respect, mine has been tried considerably. If there is an issue that needs to be resolved, sooner is better than later." Her eyes followed the Karasten's miniscule movements dilligently, mirroring his unblinking gaze. He surrendered no answer, only rumbled in response, and Hawke's shoulders sagged in exasperation.

A deep, velvety smooth voice rolled over the silence like distant thunder. "Shanedan, Hawke."

The woman addressed shifted, turning around to face the towering form before her. The Arishok's yellow eyes pierced through her unlike any gaze another Qunari had subjected her to. His ivory hair was wet, and sent rivulets of water coursing down his chest, arms, and back. His height dwarfed Karasten's, by several inches. Regardless, this Qunari's size was heavily outweighed by the enormous energy and power he exuded. Hawke swallowed roughly, and felt heat shoot through her limbs as if she had partaken in a potent brew for the first time. This was not the only incident she had felt his power before, but at that moment it was so great it pulsed against her skin and forced her back a step.

The Arishok let out a grunt and gestured in a way she interpreted as a sign to calm herself. "Karasten honors the Qun with his patience. I can not find the same approval applying to you, Hawke. Not to one who demands patience but does not exemplify it herself."

The Arishok's words hit Hawke in the gut harder than any punch would. He was right; she was foolish, but Hawke didn't have the heart to admit it aloud in his presence. Even after all of this time, after all the events that brought her here, and how he awarded her honesty, her skin still prickled when she thought of speaking her whole mind to him. Hawke knew the Arishok was beyond normal intelligence, and she was not adapted to forming her words around such mental prowess. _Now is better than never,_ she thought, scolding herself. _You've come this far. You don't need to let fear and nonacceptance hold you back any longer. _"Shanedan, Arishok." She simply replied, nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"You have come here many times, regardless of the existence of any duties I have had for you. Tell me, Basalit-an, what is your purpose?" The Arishok leaned against the corner of the wall adjacent to her, crossing his thick arms over his statuesque chest. His expression lent nothing to his purpose, and it left Hawke with a loss of words and a dry mouth. Yet the Arishok waited, his muscles bunching and releasing with every subtle movement; the sheen of water on his body highlighting the texture of his skin... Hawke's mind strayed, and she wondered silently how his skin felt to the touch, how it tasted beneath her lips; if that stoic expression would melt into one of pure pleasure. She thought of Karasten, and if the Arishok shared his scent. Somehow, she doubted this; but would she find out for sure? Hawke opened her mouth to reply, but her voice hitched in her throat, causing her to merely let out an audible sigh; a result of her heated thoughts. Immediately thereafter she clapped her hands over her mouth, her cheeks flush and burning. She was sure both the Arishok and Karasten witnessed the rise of colour in her cheeks. Hawke swallowed roughly, then, and ground out her retort.

"I find Qunari culture... Intriguing, to say the least. Your people hold many ideals of which I share. It is hard to live amongst those who cannot understand you intellectually." Hawke paused, her hands smoothing over the dusty fabric of her blouse.

It was then that the Arishok's gaze wavered from her own and followed the path of her hands. The gesture was innocent enough, but the Arishok's loaded stare made Hawke's skin tingle and her blood boil. _Oh gods, how does this simple gesture of his affect me like this? _She clenched her hands at her sides and set her jaw awkwardly; the heat still rising to her cheeks, her mouth forming a firm, straight line.

The Arishok tensed, easing himself from his leisurely position; eyes once again holding hers. "Hawke, there is reason behind your title, Basalit-an." He paused. "Out of all of the Dathrasi of Kirkwall, I was not expecting to find one of your kind who is worthy of the title."

Hawke had heard this a couple of times previously from the Arishok, but it never once ceased to send rivulets of hot electricity down her spine. Something about the way he said it made her stomach a pleasent pool of warmth in her core. Her mouth opened to speak, but she found herself once again without words. The Arishok seemed unaffected by this.

"Your intelligence will be wasted here, Hawke." His eyes bored deep into her now; golden, unerringly beautiful. "I will not leave you to be... Contaminated by the filth in this city."

Hawke's eyes widened visibly, her mouth dropping open. The Arishok held up a single finger to silence her, and his power washed over her intensely in that moment. The air became still, uncharacteristically so, as if every Qunari on duty in the compound had seen the gesture and was awaiting their leader's command. "Submit to the Qun, and you shall be rewarded with honor and duty as Viddathari."

The Karasten beside her vibrated now with his own energy; it throbbed excitedly over her skin. Had he spoken to the Arishok about her conversion? To Hawke at this very moment, it seemed like a viable reason as to why the Arishok had suddenly pressed this upon her. Or was it, perhaps, that he was fortifying the request of his superior with his own bolt of energy? Her mind darted from one conclusion to another, her eyes giving away the turmoil within. "I cannot relinquish my duties to Kirkwall... Yet." It was an answer, at least, but it wasn't a clear one in any sense or purpose.

A deep rumble burst from his lips like rolling thunder across a tumultuous sky. Hawke could see the pointed tips of his teeth through his grimacing lips, but only for a brief moment. Electricity popped in the air between them as the Arishok's gaze hardened to the likeness of stone. His eyes glinted in the moonlight like polished citirine, hinting for the briefest moment his true intentions.

"Maraas imekari—You do not belong with these basra." The Arishok's open palm sliced through the air swiftly, his response ground out between gnashing teeth. "I shall not lose a basalit-an worthy of the Qun to these fetid, infertile wastes!"

His muscles tightened then, shifting under his burning skin; pieces of his ivory hair stifling the glow that emanated from his gaze. He truly seemed to turn to soft marble then; Hawke could not even see him breathe.

The Arishok moved quickly. Perhaps it was his sheer size that caused Hawke to under-estimate his speed; but the result of her miscalculation causing her to stumble as a loose stone caught her foot in mid-movement. A cry tore through her throat and her fingers searched for a holding in the stone wall as she fell knee-first against the cobblestone. The Arishok's large hand pressed her further to the ground as she gasped in pain from her injured knee cap.

"_Katara Basra! Ebost issala!_"

Hawke heard an immediate response from the Qunari about her. The clink of metal sliding against metal, the creak of both new and aged leather being bent around massive forms filled her ears. In an almost knee-jerk reaction, Hawke raised herself slightly from the ground, despite her injury, and drew her spare dagger from her boot before quickly surveying her surroundings. Her knee throbbed in protest, and her body shook from the pain.

The Arishok, after shoving her low against the ground, had retrieved his weapons and rushed towards the commotion by the compound gate. Her vision was impaired by both the darkness and the rise of the wall which just perfectly blocked her view of the ensuing battle below. An strange sound rang in her ears; first a low rumble, then a sharp screeching _boom_ as a ball of energy went astray of the main horde of Qunari and flung itself toward Hawke's crouching form. Hawke's eyes squinted in pain as the light burned her retinas, signifying the imminent arrival of the fatal magical blast directed towards her. She froze in shock, having never seen such a display of power before, her arm shielding her eyes from the stinging brightness.

A roar reverberated in her chest, and before she knew it, a very male body was pressed upon her; claws digging through her delicate clothing, taking a firm hold on her waist before picking her up and dashing away from the oncoming attack. Hawke herself did not see who it was; her eyes were eclipsed by the explosion of the energy mass against the place just behind the Arishok's throne, where she had once stood. Long, soft hair tickled her cheek as the Qunari who saved her pressed her against his chest. She could feel the strain of his muscles under his tight skin as he almost folded himself over her in protection, his massive frame shielding her from the worse of the explosion.

"_Katara, Bas_!"

Hawke felt the Qunari's battle cry rumble deep within him before his words burst free from his lips. She found herself gently deposited on the ground as more battle cries burst from the Qunari around her in reply. The sound of metal, leather, and flesh moving together as one filled her ears, signalling the Qunari's response to the severe and unwarrented attack. Hawke opened her her eyes to witness not only the charge, but who had saved her from death. But she saw only white fading to black. With a pang of dread, it was then she realised that her eyes had been wide open for quite sometime. Her own screams ripped the tumultuous air as her hands pawed at her eyes trying feebly to regain the vision she had lost. Suddenly her world spun, her hands covering her eyes as she lost her equilibrium and smashed her head against the hard cobblestone.

She lost herself to the void.


	3. Chapter 3 The Message & The Healing

Author's Note: Hello everyone! I hope you're enjoying the story so far. I know I'm enjoying the writing process of it. I was hoping for more feed back with the upload of the last chapter, but there was none received. I have a very important question and request.

Do you enjoy the Qunari OC fluff so far?

Should it continue or remain one-sided?

Don't worry, Arishok/F!Hawke will still be the foremost pairing of this fic. I just want to know what my readers want to see! Please review and share you opinions! Thanks!

Ps. Arishok will be muscling his way in during the next chapter, I promise!

_Hawke sat on a half rotten log before a small fire. The smell of the earth was rich here, clearing her mind and allowing her—for once—a moment of undisturbed contemplation and clarity. She held a boline and a handful freshly cut lavender in either hand, but she stared through these tools towards the jagged outline of a crest of mountains against the darkening blue sky. A plume of golden light burst across the sky, lighting the darkened peaks to a snowy white and slate blue. Tumultuous tufts of thick cloud curled over the peaks of the the range. A distant rumble sung in her ears; the sound of glacier ice crashing down the mountainside into a jade-hued lake by its feet. And just like that, the light had crested and fell below the line of the mountains once more._

_Hawke jumped to her feet, knotting a tie about her bundle of lavender before packing it away with a number of other herbs. She donned a worn woollen cloak about her shoulders, flipping the hood up over her face before strapping her great sword to her back; her crescent-edged blade (boline) and emergency dagger to her hip belt. Tying her pack about her shoulders, Hawke stamped out the fire in her thick dragon-skin boots before running for the treeline._

_Another burst of golden light burst in the sky closer to the campsite as she ran. She cursed under her breath. The Hunt had caught on faster than she had anticipated; she felt their static energy, heard their laboured breathing... And she saw his moon-like eyes watching her, unblinking, swallowing her soul in their gaze. An arrow struck Hawke straight in the back, burrowing deep into the heaving muscle of her shoulder blade; reopening the old, silvery scar from days long past._

_She fell on her belly with a guttural exclamation, her fingers curling into the earth as pain ripped throughout her body. The trees seemed to close in about her as the flame of the Hunt grew closer to her fallen form._

_A great, cream-colored beast burst forth from the brush, it's horns twisting upwards towards the sky; dark, doe-y eyes fierce in the darkness of the valley of the mountains. Hawke was fading in and out of consciousness, her fingernails peeling off and she struggled to roll herself onto her back. Her heart beat irregularly as poison pumped through her body, Her vision was fading in and out as the beast stood over her, it's cloven hooves pawing on either side of her head._

You cannot run from destiny, for every footstep brings you closer to your purpose. _A voice filled her mind, uttering these words. The Great beast looked down at her, intelligence glinting in it's large __black eyes. _Every moment in your life has brought you here. Do not doubt your purpose.

_Hawke began convulsing, tears bursting from her eyes, saliva bubbling from her lips as she choked on air. Her veins burned, and her eyes darted from the stone-still beast to the sky above. The stars were like gems gilding a sky made of black silk. The moon hung like a pendant above her, cradled by the pale, rising points of the beast who stood over her._

I shall give you peace; but do not forget these words. Soon you will see the wisdom I have given you, but not today. _With that, the beast gave a high-pitched keening noise, rearing up on it's hind legs before crashing down upon Hawke's skull. She was silenced mid-scream, her vision fading to black as she felt he skull crack painlessly._

Awaken, child; and walk again your path.

Water lapped against straining wood. The smell of herbs, foreign and known, hung heavily in the air, as if someone had brewed a large pot of tea and let the steepings sit within the hot water for a long time. It was quiet, save for the occasional splash and dripping of water.

Hawke leaned against the edge of what she perceived as a rather large wooden tub. She let her limbs hang loosely in the heat of the water; her head slung back, cheeks flushed, body relaxing and open to the positive energies of her surroundings. Her body still felt heavy from her dream; her skin was vibrating with every heart beat. Hawke struggled to grasp the fleeting remnants of her reverie; but only succeeded in remembering the phrase: "... Walk again your path." before it burrowed deep within her soul.

Hawke sighed, disappointed, her eyes crinkling beneath a thick cloth which smelled of elfroot and some other foreign herb. The slightly damp cloth, heavy with a think poultice, was bound around her head securely, preventing it from slipping down her nose. For a moment she sat, submerged in the steaming water, confused as to how she had ended up with her eyes bound with poultices, her body half submerged in what smelled like tea-water.

It was then she noticed the subtle and steady breath of another sharing the bath with her. Hawke allowed herself to stiffen, but only for a moment; her shoulders rising then falling in mock relaxation. Tiny ripples of water lapped at her belly as a body moved close to her, causing currents of water to pull at her submerged form. A soft, soggy material brushed gently over her forehead, nose, lips, and cheeks, clearing her face of the perspiration which had begun forming a thin layer over her skin.

The person's breathing was deep and even; their breath smelling of crushed mint and tea leaves. Hawke could tell it was a man, from the rumble of his chest every time he took a breath, and from the way he had touched her; somehow still managing to possess that raw male energy while trying to be gentle and mellow. Come what may, Hawke still stood by the conclusion that women almost always had a softer hand when dealing with the injured.

The male's rather relaxing movements had slowly begun to make their way lower, past Hawke's collarbone. With his hand (armed with a sponge of some sort) crossing boundaries, it was then she realised that she was not even clothed in her under-trappings. Hawke twisted away and swung her elbow in the transgressor's direction, making a connection with a satisfying _pop_. Infuriated, she stood to escape the tub, but collapsed and was submerged under the water as a result of her shattered, useless knee. In a panic, Hawke began trashing wildly, momentarily paralysed and unable to haul herself above water to breathe.

A pair of huge hands hooked under her armpits and pulled her against a firm, muscled chest. His arms crossed over her chest, locking her against him to prevent her from struggling and breaking away. Heat rose in Hawke's face as her breasts brushed against his arms and her nipples hardened, pressing into his hot skin. Her body writhed against his, and with a thankful sigh she felt that he still wore pants, even in water.

"Let me go!" Hawke protested, now realising that her struggles were causing more discomfort than anything. "Why am I naked and blindfolded? What did you do to me?"

"A Bas Saarebas assaulted the entrance. It seems it had followed our trail and tried to attack as the guards shifted. It miscalculated and was eliminated. Now you are here." A familiar voice rasped, his hold on Hawke loosening slightly. "Your eyes had been damaged from the blast. Saarebas healed them, but they must be bound until it is safe for you to see in full light once more."

"Karasten?" Hawke guessed.

"It is I," came the short reply.

There was a long pause, and Hawke found herself relaxing into Karasten's grip. She was relieved it was only him to see her naked, but only slightly. Her nipples were still hard, throbbing, and sensitive as his arms pressed against her breasts. Her spine tingled and her cheeks bloomed red.

"I will remove your bandages, Basalit-an, but only because it is night. You will not be able to see the sun for several days." The Karasten partially relinquished his grip on her, using one of his hands to pull the blindfold loose from her head. Hawke's heart skipped a beat as he pulled the cloth from her face. Her eyes opened slowly, and she peered about her surroundings excitedly, thankful that her vision had been restored.

Hawke and Karasten were boxed in by cold stone walls. The only source of light were two small windows opposite the door; but they were shaded by thick, red silk curtains. Silvery moonlight cut through the little space that the curtains allowed. Various fresh herbs hung from the rafters, and a table sat by the windows, on which several items for mixing and grinding sat. There was a large iron stove beside the rather large wooden tub Hawke and Karasten shared; it was probably what was keeping the water so warm. Lavender, mint, tea leaves, and elfroot seemed to be either carefully crushed or chopped and thrown into the bath water, creating a sort of healing soup. With Hawke and Karasten as the main ingredients.

Karasten's silvery hair floated on the surface of the water; the lavender flowers and mint leaves getting caught in the thick strands; creating a rather odd overall image of the tough Qunari soldier. Hawke felt the Karasten's cerise gaze heavily on the back of her head, and a sudden rush of embarrassment spread throughout her body. She broke free of him easily this time, and managed to make her way easily towards the other side of the tub, her back facing him. Heat spread across her cheeks and she hid her visage from him in shame and humiliation; her shoulders rose and tightened as she sunk collarbone-deep into the water. The Karasten was a friend; she definitely did not feel comfortable being unclothed and... Touched by him in such a state.

"Look away. I am getting out of the bath." Hawke demanded, peeking over her shoulder to see that the Karasten had done exactly as she asked. Quickly she hoisted herself over the edge and out of the tub, her skin goose bumping in the cold air. "Where is my clothing?"

"On the table." Came the Karasten's short reply.

Hawke quickly clothed herself in desperation; donning her tattered blouse and almost too tight leather slacks. She was still wet, and the white blouse clung to her chest and stomach uncomfortably, outlining the muscles of her torso and the hardness of her nipples. She sighed exasperatedly and crossed her arms over her chest, letting the Karasten know that she was presentable.

"The other Qunari. Have they been more fortunate than I?" Hawke asked awkwardly.

"Yes. You were the only one to sustain any serious injuries." The Karasten uttered, climbing out of the bath, and removing his sopping trousers. Hawke turned away, her mouth forming a straight line. "The Arishok came to your aid and shielded you from the worst of the blast. He could not, however, prevent the damage to your vision."

Hawke remembered her saviour's firm hands, his hard muscles, and soft hair as he bent close to her, pressing her head against his chest. She remembered how it still felt wet from the bath he must have taken. Hawke felt a deep stirring within herself, growing from her belly and extending lower into her throbbing nether regions. Her mouth grew dry, and she swallowed loudly. It felt so wrong, yet so right when she thought of him. She throbbed and it felt good, but it was a curse packaged as a blessing; she knew she could never have the Arishok.

"But I do not belong to the Qun."

"You cannot belong to the Qun. You can only be one with it." Karasten replied, returning Hawke's gaze as she glanced over at him. He stood solemnly, his lips tight and face unreadable as he knotted the front of his trousers securely.

"How ever it may be interpreted, I am still not a part of the Qun. I am not Viddathari; I was not Arishok's responisbility." Hawke protested, probing him for at least a clue of the Arishok's intent. In a moment of distraction, she took up a brush from the table and began combing out her long hair as she spoke.

"It is the will of the Qun. Beyond that, I cannot speak."

"How can I learn if I am not taught?" Hawke pressed, her eyebrows knitting together as she combed through one last tangle in her thick hair.

Karasten growled lowly, his crimson eyes glinting ferociously in frustration. "Submit to the Qun, and your role will be realised. Then, and only then, will you truly know the ways of the Qun." He dipped his fingers in jar and began painting thick, blood-red lines over his chest quickly and masterfully, as if he had done it many times. Hawke watched silently, brooding, as the trademark Qunari markings began to take form on his body Hawke quietly moved behind him and ran the brush through his long hair. The Karasten moved to silently protest at first, but he grew very still as she combed through his fine, pallid locks.

"I can't say I haven't thought of leaving everything behind for the Qun." Hawke began softly, her eyes fading into the distance. "From what I've seen, from what I've listened to... It makes sense to me."

Karasten's body tightened until it felt like rock beneath her hands, like he was trying to hold back the energies and emotions buzzing and pulsing beneath his skin. Hawke squeezed his shoulder and moved away, her lips pinching together in uncertainty.

Karasten stood; a towering giant compared to Hawke's average size, making her look diminutive in his presence. His hair, neatly combed, looked like a waterfall of thick silver thread that flowed down past his shoulder blades. He turned, partially facing Hawke; his eyes glinting from the moonlight peeking in through the window. She felt like he wanted to say something; his energy demanded it but he was visibly pushing it back deep inside himself.

"Know that, whatever you decide, you shall be welcome here." Karasten paused, his lips stretching over dagger-like teeth. "Kadan."

Karasten turned his back on Hawke then; strapping on his worn leather pauldrons and bracers; his heavy sword sheathed on his back. Hawke watched him, her mouth opening and closing, unable to weave a response to his words. As Karasten left, Hawke pondered the meaning of his words.

_Kadan. _It did not sound like a rank or official title. And the way he uttered it, it sounded soft and smooth.


	4. Chapter 4 Reason & Doubt

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you so much for your comments and suggestions! I read every single one, rest assured! This chapter is short, but you get a taste of what you've been waiting for. The next chapter will be loaded. You'll see. I think you can guess who the person is at the end of the chapter. Horror!_

Hawke made her way out of the healing room into the open air of the Qunari compound courtyard. The smell of hot tar, seawater, and a faint hint of rot filled her nostrils as she alighted the stairs, looking down towards the gate. It, and the stone around it, was a bit more charred than usual; but other than that the traces of the battle was non-existent. No blood, no bodies, no metallic smell permiating the air. It was safe.

Karasten was no where within Hawke's sight, making her feel somewhat bare and unprotected. She had already gotten used to her large Qunari friend's presence when she visited the Compound. He seemed to enjoy her company, even though a large amount of the time they spent together was without an utterance. Since the last few days, though, it had been the exact opposite.

Hawke moved slowly and gracefully, her strange movements and pace making up for her knee injury as she tip toed down the dusty steps. She watched the dust curl about her ankles and calves as she stood before the crumbling stone stairs, before slowly glancing in the direction of the gate and then the view of the city to her left. The moon shone brightly, framed by the deep blue and silver of the sea and the jagged, discoloured sandstone of the buildings of Kirkwall.

A pair of smoothly curved ebony horns, ringed with gold, rose to cradle the moon between its tines. The moonlight highlighted the streaks of ivory growing the the base of the Arishok's horns, fading to black about mid way to the pointed tip. The Arishok's horns were by farthest the largest Hawke had ever seen; easily as long as her forearm, perhaps more if she were able to touch them. Her mind wandered; imagining her hands running along the gentle curves of his horns, their bodies centimetres apart. The thought of being so close to Arishok made Hawke shudder.

Shaking free from her not-so-innocent ponderings, Hawke made her way towards the moonlit view. The Arishok stood facing partially towards her; his ivory hair glowing in the light, flowing down past his shoulder-blades. A small compliment of Sten stood before him in a loose crescent, their bodies heaving, smudged with splatters of red paint (or blood?), their bodies glistening; listening intently to their leader's words.

Hawke approached cautiously, but listened to the Arishok's charge from a distance. His lips moved quickly; but language was the only barrier should could not break and glean information from. The smell of sea salt and spicy sweat permeated the air as she moved closer and caught wind of the Stens' heady scent. An item passed between the foremost of the Sten, and the Arishok without a word, but a simple nod of the head.

_That is definatly blood smeared over their markings_, Hawke surmised, now that she was within a few pace's distance from the group. The Stens' weapons were sheathed but dripping or splattered with cerise blood. Rather morbidly, Hawke noted that the blood was the same color as Karasten's sharp eyes. Without words, the Sten departed toward the stairs by the gate, undoubtedly pining to submerse themselves in a steaming bath.

The Arishok stood before the back drop of the ocean; his face lowering as his swept his gaze from the horizon to the dusty stone floor, to Hawke's limber form. His armor was missing, leaving his shoulders and chest bare to the kisses of the moon, and to the widening eyes of his guest. His muscles looked like they were carved from marble; smooth, perfect, ready to strike like a hissing, coiling snake.

"Hawke," He drew her name out; pronouncing every sylliable carefully, rolling it over his tongue like a fine wine. "Your prescence is unexpected... But welcome." His accent made the common tongue seem less harsh, more refined as it escaped his lips.

Hawke swallowed hard, and bowed her head in respect. "Shanaden, Arishok. Thank you for... For protecting me, last night. I would not be standing here before you if you had not taken action."

"That much is certain, Basalit-an." Arishok rumbled, his hair tumbling over his shoulders as he shifted his body in her direction. She noticed, with a raise of her eyebrow, that he was holding a rather large bottle of Orlesian Fire Wine in one fist. "Your thanks are appreciated, but not necessary."

"So I've been told." Hawke searched his unreadable gaze while she spoke. "I am not -"

The Arishok moved close to her then, gesturing with his hand fiercely, demanding her silence. Fire burned in his gaze, leaving Hawke breathless in his power. He was very close to her now, their bodies inches from touching as he towered over her. Hawke had never felt so small, so helpless—and desperately aching for his touch. She felt his laboured breathing brush against her hair and the smooth planes of her face; making a bolt of energy trace her spine, causing her to shudder uncontrollably.

"I will not listen to words, Hawke." The Arishok moved dangerously close to her then; their noses would have been touching if Hawke was at the right height for it. His skin vibrated against hers as their gaze locked. His eyes glinted in the darkness, preditory, possesive, alluring. Hawke felt her fingers brush against the skin of his arm, the oil of his body paint thick on the pads of her fingers, smearing as her fingers traced the line of his muscle, there. He moved into her touch, but only for a moment; his eyes narrowing, pale lashes hiding the storm in his gaze as he brushed past her, walking towards his throne.

"Come." The Arishok ordered huskily, his pace not slowing as a clambered up the steep ascention of the stairs. When Hawke made no move to follow, the Arishok paused and threw a heated glance in her direction. "Come! And do not tarry."

Hawke followed him then, her knee aching as she swiftly laboured her way to the Arishok's side past his large, handcarved throne. A path had been cleared towards a door Hawke had never known to exsist. Intracately embroidered banners the color of the setting sun decorated the sides of the entrance, marking it as some place important. She suddenly realised that she very well might be going into the Arishok's personal quarters, and her cheeks burned hotly, their color invisible in the darkness of the night. The Arishok waited until they were both in the room before he lit a lamp, illuminating their surroundings.

A large desk sat opposite the door, overed in stacks of books, and what looked to be large leather billfolds holding many thick sheets of parchment. Several bottles of ink, opened and unopened, were arranged neatly at the front of the desk, ordered according to levels of ink. A large chair, similar in design to the Arishok's throne, stood ominously behind the desk. Several bookselves lined the walls, filled to the brim with the exception of the missing spots for the books on the desk. There was an upholstered bench infront of the desk, worn tapestries hanging from the walls, and another mysterious door behind the Arishok's desk. _A private study, _Hawke surmised mentally, observing her surroundings.

The Arishok stood by his desk, picking up several books, reading the titles; piling up the discards overtop the large billfolds before finding what he wanted. The book looked fairly thick; it was leather-bound and embossed with simple lettering in common tongue. With this book in hand, the Arishok turned towards Hawke and pressed it into her hands. "Read. Learn. This will answer your questions." He paused, eyes flickering with the light of the lamp. "Then come to me in four night's time."

"Very well, Arishok." Hawke replied, tucking the tome underneath her arm protectively, as if it were a sacred text. Her eyes softened and disappointment shot through her-but she couldn't help but feel somewhat relieved that the Arishok had not ravaged her then and there. She felt embarassed, then; thinking that the Arishok wanted her for that brief moment when their skin finally touched. She thought she had felt it, but she doubted herself. She could have imagined the connection in a moment of lust. His actions could have easily reflected annoyance with her sluggish responses. A sigh.

"I shall return to my home, then, Arishok." Hawke turned her back to him, her eyes downcast, her fingers brushing the metal of the door's handle. _A seasoned warrior, and I cannot handle myself in the presence of an attractive man?_ She scolded herself, knitting her dark eyebrows. _I am a fool. This needs to stop._

It was then she felt him close behind her, his breath fluttering against the loose waves of her hair, his eyes peeking into her soul even with her back to him. Hawke's breathing became rushed, not sure if she should leave or turn to face the Arishok standing achingly close behind her. "Panahedan." She offered hurriedly, opening the door quickly and letting herself out.

Ignoring her protesting knee, Hawke flew down the stairs; her hands clutching the book to her chest like a shield, her nails digging into the resilient leather. The Qunari within the compound either ignored her or watched her silently as she nearly jogged for the gate. With nary a word, the iron barricade swung open and she left the compound with a cloud of dust in her wake, her eyes glued to the ground; unaware of a different kind of commotion brewing as she exited gate. Blood stained the ground in thick pools. A group of Qunari carried a familiar form on a rickety make-shift cot; their voices filling the night air with exclaimations and growls in a foreign tongue.

A whithered voice called for Hawke in the darkness, but she was already gone.


	5. Chapter 5 Pain & Release

AUTHOR'S NOTES: _I hope you enjoy this chapter. PLEASE let me know what is on your mind! I don't mind hearing what you have to say for every chapter! Ps. If there are typos, forgive me!_

Hawke, after a good hour of dodging both the hands and the questions of her companions managed to make it up to her room in one piece, with the door locked securely behind her. She leaned against the heavy door and listened to Anders call out to her, whilst arguing with Vengence over his reactions.

"Hawke! Open up I need to talk to you!"

"_Talking sense into her will not work._"

"You don't know that."

_"Have your protests work before?"_

"... No."

Hawke giggled and, with nary a glance about her room, she rid her body of her sticky, dirty shirt, clingy leather pants, and doeskin boots. She tiptoed to her vanity and sprayed on some fancy Antivan perfume her mother had bought her for her birthday last year. She hadn't used it since she died.

"My, my Hawke." Isabela cooed, reclining on Hawke's bed. "Care to join me?"

Hawke huffed; she knew someone had been missing from the welcoming party downstairs. And here she was, kicking her dusty heels up on her once neat and tidy bed. Unfazed by her own nudity, she balled her fists and rested them on her hips, raising one eyebrow at the Pirate's comment. "I'll pass, my dear."

The pirate laughed softly, unpreturbed by Hawke's refusal of her offer. "No wonder Anders has been all mopey, lately. You're a fox. I wouldn't be able to live without such a sight either."

"Stop it Isabela," Hawke broke down, throwing a glare in her direction as she sat down and smoothed a potent ointment on her bruised knee. "I'm not in the mood."

Isabela shrugged. "So, where have you been? One moment you're in the Hanged Man with Varric and I—oh! The things you said—and the next you completely disappeared. We've been looking for you for days."

Hawke sighed exasperatedly, wrapping a bandage around her knee. "I am a grown woman. I thought I was allowed to come and go as I please."

"Not when with us." Isabela winked. "So, where did you go?" She had found Hawke's hidden stash of liquor, and partook of it nonchalantly. She came to her side, sipping a goblet brimming with her finest Orelisan Sweet Wine. Hawke grumbled in annoyance, but decided to ignore it for a moment, at least.

"I was summoned by the Arishok." Isabela nearly choked on her wine when she said this.

"So, did you..?"

"Did I what?"

Isabela snorted, her brow creasing in disbelief of her naievity. "Did you jump his mast? Did he bend you over? Here—you need this more than me. Being sober makes you daft."

Hawke pushed the goblet away, heat rising in her cheeks. "No! No—Nothing happened. The compound was attacked. A mage sent some Arcane bolt to me and my vision burned out. They took care of me and restored my vision." She left out some parts, but Isabela certainly did not need to know. Not with her and Varric double-teaming smutty tales and exaggerated rumours.

Isabela looked truly disappointed. "Ugh, no wonder they are always so uptight—everyone needs a good rut now and again." Another wink.

Hawke rolled her eyes and picked up a brush, combing out the tangles in her hair for the second time that night. "Isabela... I'd like to rest sometime soon."

Once Isabela left (which took alot of coaxing), Hawke laid on her bed, slipping under the covers with the book the Arishok had lent to her. She read until dawn's light shone brightly through the draped windows; at which point her eyes began hurting as well as her head. With a yawn she tucked her book under her pillow—an odd habit she formed out of living in tight spaces—and fell asleep.

The sun had just set when Hawke heard—for the fourth time that evening—someone frantically rapping at her door and trying the lock. There was no smoke, so fire; so scent of blood or cries or clanking of steel, so it was doubtful that something violent had happened.

Hawke rolled over onto her stomach with a groan, her face creasing as another frantic flurry of knocks and pleadings barraged her heavy bedroom door.

"One moment! Calm down!" She finally called in response, tumbling out of bed onto the floor with a grumble. She quickly smoothed down her tousled hair and straightened her bed clothes before opening the door.

"Mesere!" Bodahn nearly fell on Hawke, his fist ready to make another assault on her door. "You have been asleep for two days; two rather important messages came for you. And you have a guest waiting for you downstairs."

Hawke wrinkled her brow. Two days? It didn't feel like two days, but it explained her overtiredness plenty. "Alright Bodahn. Let me get dressed. Tell the guest I'll be down in a moment."

"Yes, mesere." He replied tightly, before he turned to rush down to the guest.

Hawke closed her door and quickly donned some small clothes and cotton underarmor before strapping on her thick leather-and-steel plated cuirass, chainmaille, loincloth, and greaves. Without hesitation she opted for an ornate but destructive greatsword; strapping it to her back. She paused for a moment; adjusting buckles here, straps there; making everything fit snuggly and comfortably.

The "guest" waited calmly by the landing, but his presence created a heated, uneasy feeling within the house as Hawke stepped down to the main floor. He was a Qunari, his skin a darker grey than most of his kin. His hair was white, long, and his eyes glinted an inky black through his helmet. His chest was smeared with war paint—and blood, setting her on edge. A Sten at her manor? What was the Arishok up to?

Without formality, without a simple greeting, the Sten spoke: "Your presence is required—immediately."

Hawke paused for a moment, realising something. "Where is my friend, the Karasten? Why did the Arishok not send him?"

The Sten watched her through the grate of his helmet, eyes unreadable. "Come, and you shall see why."

Fear for Karasten struck her hard in her chest. She remembered the possessive glint in the Arishok's eyes; the way he stood over her and the way he cradled her while protecting her. Did the Arishok do something to her Karasten? She wanted to say no. But her brain was taking sides and warring with each other. She couldn't make up her mind; but she knew something was very wrong. She needed to get to the compound. Now.

Spots of blood led her to the compound. A familiar scene from a not so distant past. A heart-wrenching ache ripped through her, making her stomach flip as she reached the blackened gates of the Qunari Compound. The Sten huffed beside her, stratching a place just beneath one of his horns, as the gate swung open.

All was quiet, but the stares Hawke attracted were unnerving. She knitted her brows, alighting the stairs opposite the gate at the Sten's gestural request. She took the steps two at a time; her anxiety growing the closer she got to the flat of the top of the stairs. "Where is he. What is going on?"

"I will show you, Basalit-an." The Sten moved quickly, as if he sensed the urgency in Hawke's voice; entering the building a pacing down the hall until he reached a door at the very end.

"Inside, Hawke, you will find your Kadan."

_Kadan? What does that even mean? _Hawke thought with annoyance, opening the door herself. _I just want to know what is going on!_

An Arvaarad stood in the corner of the room and looked up at Hawke as she left herself inside. His arms were crossed; his lips a grim line. He looked her over and cast his gaze past Hawke's line of vision. The room smelled of blood. It was the first thing that hit her as she had moved inside and the Sten had closed the door. She followed the Arvaarad's gaze to a large figure laying in a large bed, and a Saarebas leaning over the weakened form, partially hiding the injured Qunari's presence. The Saarebas worked silently, his huge hands pressed to the Qunari's punctured chest.

"What is going on here?" Hawke asked desperately, looking at each and every Qunari in the room, waiting for a response. The Saarebas grunted, moving away from his patient; returning to his handler's side. It was then Hawke saw.

Karasten lay bloodied on the bed, his wounds healed up, but his body covered in a heavy layer of sweat, stratches, and blood. The bandages which had bound his wounds had been cut away and lay in piles on the floor. His hair stuck to his cheeks, his skin unnaturally pale; his cherry red eyes peeking through his heavy eyelids. His head lulled towards Hawke, the wet cloth on his forehead falling to the floor as his eyes widened for a moment, taking in her form.

"Kadan." He breathed, clawed fingers needling the sheets beneath him. "It has been two days without answer,"

Hawke felt her wavering mask crumble as she sat on the bed beside him, tears brimming and flowing over onto her cheeks as she looked down upon him. "I'm so sorry, Karasten. I really am."

It disturbed her to see him in such a state. Seeing any Qunari like this would be alarming, but Karasten's plight hit a little too close to home. He was her friend; one of the very first Qunari besides the Arishok to speak with her. They shared thoughts and ideas; and he taught her little but meaningful things: like how to tightly braid one's hair before battle, how to fight Qunari style... All these things she was grateful for. But what she valued above all else was the respect and friendship he gave her—for once, it wasn't about greed or want. It was about learning and living side by side, without pressure or worry to live up to expectations.

His hand fell on her thigh, and Hawke immediately moved to hold it with both of hers, pressing his heavy hand against her forehead as the tears fell, one after the other. "I will not lose you, too. I won't stand for it."

She couldn't imagine the Karasten gone from her side. _Then how will you cope when the Qunari ships finally leave? _Her psyche challenged. She couldn't answer herself.

"Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra." Karasten breathed huskily, his words uneven. Hawke was sure he was borderline delirious, now; his eyelids quivering and he shivered from being out in the open air.

"What can I do?" She asked, pulling the blankets over his shivering chest, tucking the edges in under his body

"Being here with me is enough, Kadan."

Hawke sat with the Karasten, her hand covering his as he drifted in and out of consciousness. She had removed her armour; the leather chafing against her skin from the sweat which began to pearl there. She took over the duties of changing the cloth for his forehead, keeping it damp and cool. She let the Saarebas infuse his energy with Karasten; and every time he did so he seemed calmer, more stable. The Arvaarad and Saarebas had remained with her even after Karasten had fallen asleep, but she guessed it was their duty to do so.

"You should be grateful to be here, basalit-an." The Arvaarad said, breaking the silence. He had taken a seat in the corner, resting his legs. "No bas has ever been permitted this."

Hawke shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to reply to the speaking Qunari. His Saarebas grunted through sewn-together lips.

"Your Kadan had been sent as a messenger to the Viscount with his brethren. They were attacked by taam bas. He was the only survivor." The Arvaarad muttered, unblinking as he stared upon Hawke's paling complexion. "You have exhausted your time here."

Hawke took the hint, but lingered a moment longer, brushing her lips against Karasten's knuckles. He flinched slightly, baring his incisors. Hawke exited shortly thereafter.

Dawn was coming; she could see the light creeping up from the cradle of the earth, locking hands with night, pulling each other 'round in an endless circle. Her knees pressed against the ledge of the look-out as she gazed upon the view of the docks and their ships. The outline of the Wounded Coast ghosted it's way into her line of vision, sending memories to the forefront of her mind.

Hawke had met Karasten there after cutting down several Tal-Vashoth who refused to play nice and let her pass. Karasten had been a part of a Qunari patrol moving along the coastline, picking through the wreckage of their ships. They met, fought together, and became fast friends.

Hawke's breath hitched in her throat, her nails scrapping grains of sand from the rough stone of the ledge. She knew she wouldn't be able to emotionally handle it if the fever took him across the veil into otherworldly plains. Dangerous things poked through the stability of her mind, challenging her depression. She brought herself back, realising another devastating, but not so life-threatening dilemma: If Karasten lived, there would be a moment in the future, however near or far, when he would have to leave for Par Vollen.

_How will you cope with that?_ She questioned herself, brow furrowing. _Knowing he is alive and well is comfort enough._

It was then she felt someone's gaze boring into the back of her head; their breath on the top of her head making her scalp tingle. Hawke jumped as electricity surged through her body, making her heart skip a beat. She turned swiftly, her gaze captured by the Arishok who stood mere centimetres away from brushing up against her. His hair was wet, as was his skin, from what must have been a bath with spiced water. The scent of patchouli permeated the air, rising from his soaked skin, overwhelming Hawke's senses. For a moment her vision blurred from the heady mixture, her hands grasping his forearms by instinct. _How does he do this?_

The Arishok moved into her touch once more, burying his face in her hair and inhaling deeply; his hands moving to her waist and gripping her there. Before Hawke could protest, he lifted her over his shoulder with a growl and climbed the stairs towards his throne. Passing it by, he broke hurriedly into his office, clearing his desk with a swipe of his hand, and placing Hawke there in their stead.

He did not move upon her, but stood very close, his breathing ragged and dangerous. "I will not wait any longer for your decision, Hawke," The Arishok breathed, his teeth bared as he panted.

Hawke blinked, her heart racing as it never had before. She was a warrior; she could cut down anyone who opposed her without blinking, but here she sat; feeling as helpless as a prissy Kirkwall noble woman with the Arishok himself seething before her. She could not tell if he was about to tear her apart or something else.

The Arishok stood stiffly; watching, waiting for an answer. When he received none, he seemed to release his agitation to the air, his body turning partially away from her; eyes deepening in thought. Hawke noted the way his shoulders tensed then relaxed; how his hair fell across his back like an ivory curtain. A fluttering feeling began in her stomach and shot down to rest in her secret place. She could already feel her wetness spreading; and she cursed herself for being so easily aroused.

The Arishok turned then, his face unreadable. He came touchably close to her again once more, his hand roughly grabbing her chin as he dipped his mouth down towards hers. At first, their lips only brushed; but Hawke rose up to meet him, her hand falling on his thick muscled neck. Their lips locked for several moments; the Arishok's tongue begging entrance into her mouth. Hawke permitted his and he rumbled, pulling her tongue between his teeth gently before breaking away.

"I-" Hawke started, but was met by the Arishok's silencing digit.

"Do not speak. I do not wish to hear words."

Without premise Arishok pulled away from Hawke's grip, his horns slicing through the light of the pre-lit lamp; he turned his back towards her.

"Panahedan, Hawke."

He left her alone in the dark.


	6. Chapter 6 A Sweet & Dangerous Thing

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm back in business with some more Arishok goodness. Thank you for your patience! Ps. My birthday is now in 8 days! Woot!**

All Hawke could feel was her throbbing muscles; refusing to relax, tensing as she tried to shift into a form comfortable position. With a cry of pain, she began kneading the charlie horse which gripped her calf, coaxing away the tightness. The sharp pain slowly eased away, and Hawke's head rolled back to rest against the grainy rock wall behind her. She had been asleep for quite some time now in the hallway by Karasten's door; her butt felt rather sore because of it.

Yawning and rubbing her eyes, Hawke cracked her neck and surveyed her surroundings. She was alone; the darkness of the hallway challenged by widely spaced candles held by wall sconces. All was quiet in the Qunari compound, allowing Hawke to remember.

It had been a dream. Though she felt a lingering tingle on her lips, it was a dream which had imagined them as kisses. It was her desire which wanted his touch, his closeness to her; but she knew all too well that it would never play out.

The Arishok had always been close, touchably so, but always out of reach. He never expressed anything more than friendship; he had read to her about their culture, answered her questions, allowed her to spar with his men—if anything, he had been patient, but not _interested_. She would catch him watching her, sometimes; his pale eyes flickering but unreadable, his body bent forward, arms resting on his large muscled thighs. It was nothing new. He watched her technique, commented, and more often than not Hawke went home right after. The only thing that seemed to change about him was the increasing length of his hair, the presence of his armour, and his growing lack of disgust for her.

It had not been long before he bestowed upon her a title—Basalit-an—she now being a non-qunari worthy of respect. Her missions had won more than his patience now, it seemed; but Hawke felt greedy and couldn't help but hope for something more. He had teased her with small things—his apparent lack of understanding a person's personal space: the night in which he had lent her a book not being the first of which that he had crept close to her. Hawke chalked it down to either cultural differences or the Arishok testing her awareness of her surroundings. Nothing ever happened. They would either sit on the stairs or stand at the look out as Hawke asked her questions, or he made her read passages and missives. Not once did he show interest; not once did he touch her in ways she yearned—he just watched, spoke calmly, and bid her farewell, his eyes always swirling with unreadable things. Once or twice she caught a look of disappointment on his face, but only fleetingly; his guards surrounding him, as the doorman opened the gate, always blocking her gaze.

Hawke's fingers brushed against the hilt of her longsword; memories of many afternoons spent sparring with the Karasten rushing to the forefront of her mind. They had fought many times until the sun, dipping low in the sky, cast a warm glow upon their sweat-soaked skin. Her great sword's tip had been dragging on the ground, her arms shaking from swinging it's weight towards Karasten's attacks. He had nary a scratch on his body, but he had cut loose the shoulder straps to her leather chestpiece, rendering it useless. She had pulled it off and thrown it to the dirt, dressed only in a snug, armless shirt of chainmaille and her lower armour. Her breath came out ragged, her brow furrowing until she saw Karasten smile for the first time. It was a strange thing to see a Qunari do, but it was there. The corners of his mouth tugging upwards, revealing a set of white incisors. Hawke laughed, then; wiping the sweat from her brow. The Arishok sat on his throne, pressing a cup of wine to his lips, watching them spar as he always did; his face unreadable as ever. He dismissed Hawke shortly thereafter, his eyes following her until she disappeared from sight.

Hawke was examining the blade of her sword now, her fingers dancing lightly against the flatness of the metal, skimming the subtle patterns and swirls etched there. She had only used the blade outside of sparring once: when she had cut down the insane Templar who murdered the Arishok's Delegates on their way back to the compound. She had a feeling they—the Chantry and their Templars- were involved with the Karasten's current state; zealots controlled by mother Petrice sent to not only cut down another Qunari in provocation, but to target one she was very close to. Hawke knew that was not a coincidence; mother Petrice had it out for Hawke as much as she had it out for the Qunari. Being the bitch she was, Hawke knew that she would not hesitate a single moment to "kill two birds with one stone".

Standing slowly, Hawke brushed the dust from her cotton under-clothing and made her way towards the exit down the hall—her great sword gripped tightly in one hand. Anger and embarrassment pumped through her, and she need a release in the only way she knew was acceptable.

She found the Arishok quickly. He was sitting on his throne, his gaze cast beyond her towards the sea; an expression of longing and determination clear on his face. Hawke trudged, unabashed, up the many stairs towards his throne, the tip of her blade barely skimming the ground as she climbed. A flurry of emotions burst from within her; she wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted to smash something until it mixed with the drifts of sand beneath her feet. The Arishok watched her ascent, his brow furrowing as he took in the emotions running across her face.

"Hawke, your presence in unexpected." He stood, resting his blade against his thick shoulder, unaware of her intent.

Hawke smirked slightly, feeling tears brimming in her eyes—she dared not to blink. She noticed with contentment that he carried his weapons with him, one obviously resting on his shoulder; the other resting against his throne. "Let our steel sing, Arishok; '_I will not listen to words_'." She paused, heaving a sigh and swallowing the ball that formed in her throat after quoting him. "I challenge you to a friendly duel."

Hawke felt all eyes fall on her as the Arishok shifted his blade, contemplating her request. The air was thick with tension—as if every Qunari held his breath, waiting for the Arishok's command.

"Very well, Basalit-an." The Arishok moved to walk down the steps, taking up the axe left leaning against his throne.

His speed caught Hawke off guard as his foot lashed out and hit her square in the chest, sending her reeling as she tumbling down the steps, her body curling up defensively to avoid injury. As soon as she was standing on level ground in front of the stairs, the Arishok was upon her, using his weight and gravity to push her back several feet. Dust and sand flew up about them in great clouds as the Arishok locked blades with Hawke, pushing his weight into her as she leaned forward into his blades, pushing back; her teeth clenched. She feinted and twirled from the deadlock, coming around behind him, her sword slicing through the straps that kept his pauldrons in place. A great welt formed across his back from her slice; darkening and forming tiny droplets of blood as the seconds flew by. His pauldrons fell heavily to the ground with a dull thud, and a fierce growl ripped through the air as the Arishok turned to meet her gaze.

Fire burned in his eyes and Hawke felt as if she could feel the lick of the flame's heat. She swallowed, hefting her sword and widening her stance. The Arishok twirled his weapons and panted hotly, his chest heaving as steam rose off of his body. In the blink of an eye he brought his weapons down on her; an ear piercing screech filling the air as metal sparked against metal. Hawke pressed the flat of her weapon up against his blades to meet the harsh blows. His axe caught a lock of her dark hair and cleanly sliced through it as it arched diagonally down to her belly. His short sword following, slicing cleanly through the front of her shirt exposing her creamy belly. Hawke stumbled back and swore, her hand coming off wet with blood from her stomach as the Arishok left a mark of his own; a cut deep enough to bleed a fair amount, but it's severity was not much worse than a bad paper-cut. Regardless, Hawke let her anger, rejection, sadness, and frustration flow through her at that very moment. She found herself pressing upon him, her blade working this way and that; swinging arcs towards his body, but not a single one finding it's mark. Tears burst from her eyes, making trails down her cheeks as she worked, her breathing coming out in gasps and sobs.

The Arishok watched her as he always did, his face unreadable; body moving to respond to her attacks without thought. Hawke thought she glimpsed something in those eyes; and hesitated in her attack. The Arishok exploited this; locking her blade with his axe and twisting it from her grasp. Before she could act, her blade landed on the ground with a clang; and the Arishok pushed her against the far wall using the flat of his thick short sword. He dropped his weapons then; this body pressing her into the stone, and his hands gripping her shoulders. His breath brushed against her face, tickling her cheeks as he looked down at her.

"Tell me, Hawke," The Arishok breathed, tilting her chin up so he could look upon her face wholly. "Is this the answer to the question your eyes beg me to give?"

His lips fell upon hers at that moment. Merciless in their attack, he kissed her until her mouth trembled in disbelief, his tongue licking where his teeth grazed. Hawke felt herself responding, her fingers curling in his hair as her body pressed against his; her nipples hardening and brushing against his bare chest.

_It's not a dream. This is really happening._ Hawke's heart skipped a beat as the Arishok finally broke the kiss, his eyes examining her features, lingering on her abused lips. He did not move to separate from her, but panted as he watched the emotions cross her face.

"This is a dangerous thing." The Arishok growled lowly. "To capture my thoughts during this... Time."

Hawke's brow furrowed in confusion, her hand pressing against his chest. "What... Are you talking about?"

The Arishok growled louder now, his forehead creasing as he turned away, towards his throne. "Even if I told you, you would not understand. I cannot give you proper education. It is not my duty." He picked up his weapons, glancing back at her. "I expect your presence tomorrow, Basalit-an. The Guard has begun pressing their authority." He eyes flashed with the flame once more before he turned to retire for the night.

Hawke let out a long breath and leaned against the wall, her fingers running over her warm, sore lips. A smile spread over them. After all this time; for once she wasn't dreaming.


	7. Chapter 7 The Curse Lingering Within

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm hoping this chapter brings more information to light. I feel like the last chapter was crappy, so here's hoping this makes up for it. Please, tell me was is on your mind. I won't bite.**_

_Please note that even though I am trying to make the characters as close to canon as possible, this fan fiction is still AU. Enjoy!_

_PS! **I kind of want art super, super bad to go along with my story. Feel inspired? Draw, paint, doodle, make comics! I don't care if you think you're good or bad; I'll LOVE it! PM me the link to the artwork and I'll post the link to it at the end of the chapter. You should get a account, too, so I can fave and feature it there.**_

_**Thanks!**_

Crumbled parchment crackled in protest as it hit the floor, blossoming like a blooming flower as another was tossed after it. The scratching of a quill on brittle paper echoed throughout the cramped room, made smaller by the hulking form bent over a heavy wooden desk. A lamp flickered in the inky darkness, illuminating the Arishok's face in high shadow and light; deepening the furrow of his brow and the glum expression on his visage. An irritated grumble cut through the silence as yet another discarded letter skidded across the floor.

The Arishok stood suddenly, eyeing a wrapped bundle sitting on a small table beside the door. He retrieved the package and sat once again at his desk; the package thudding heavily over top the parchment he was scribbling upon. The bundle was unceremoniously wrapped; thick paper was folded neatly around the object, glued, and held securely by a length of thick, rough twine. This was necessity; the Qun—and the Arishok himself—could not stand to lose yet another artifact to prying eyes and thieving hands. With slip of his hand, the twine fell loose and he began opening the package. The book was carefully and cleverly stowed within a large chantry prayer book; the thick pages had been cut through to create a recess in which the relatively small tome hid. If the package happened to be opened or intercepted, the main disguise of the Chantry book would protect the tome. However, to add extra protection, the tome had been sealed and enchanted with magic—under careful supervision—to materialize in Par Vollen if stolen. This book, small but thickly lined with row upon row of information, carried secrets of the Kossith only the Triumivate's eyes could see. The Ariqun had sent this to the Arishok at his request.

The small book felt heavy in his hands; not with weight, but with the gravity of the information he knew it held. The Arishok rarely had questions he could not answer himself, but this was a matter involving the Spirit. The Arishok knew only the wisdom of Body; this book belonging to the Ariqun held the answers to the primitive need coursing through the veins of every Kossith.

The Arishok carefully removed the book from it's packaging; cradling it in his hands, examining the gilt cover in the candle light. With great care and contemplation, he opened the book, his fingers skimming over the grain of the carefully preserved paper.

His thoughts wandered to the Basalit-an, who was undoubtedly passing her hours at this moment reading the verses from the book he had given her. It had been an accurate interpretation of Qunari culture from the eyes of a convert; a female no less who had fulfilled her duties as a Tamassran as no other Viddathari had previously done in her role. He had written a message to her after the last page in the language of the Qunari; his last attempt to appeal to her senses as other attempts had failed. The Arishok knew that her death would be inevitable if she did not accept passage to Par Vollen. If she did not accept he knew that he would be the one to cut her down. He did not want to waste the potential she possessed by spraying her innards across the muck of Kirkwall. Hawke had become, to him, more than Basalit-an. It was more than Kadan, even; the feelings that coursed through his veins, even at that moment, were a dangerous and forbidden thing barely known to the Arishok. The only words written on it—that were known to the Qun—were bound by the leather and parchment beneath his hands.

A low sigh vibrated throughout the Arishok's chest as he poured himself a cup of Qunari Wine from one of the few bottles his men managed to salvage from the wreckage of his fleet. Taking a sip, he settled back into his chair, the wood creaking against his weight; his hand smoothing over the first page of the secret tome.

Knowledge was the only thing that settled the Arishok's mind, beyond his services to the Qun. The fact that he did not know this feeling made him uneasy, restless—a danger to himself and others. Knowledge held the answer to the cure for this 'madness'; of that much he was sure. It was unsettling to know that there was a part of himself that he had not already conquered.

Hawke gazed at her visage in the mirror; her lips puckered and red from the Arishok's well received assault. She was sitting at her vanity, combing the tangles out from her long wet hair. She never thought of spending any time to appreciate and use the vanity; but today was somehow different. Perhaps she was caught in shock; perhaps she was doubting herself once more. Hawke stood with a sigh; her nails digging into her palms. This was no time to dwell on paltry things.

She had caught Aveline and Isabela nearly at each others throats in the mansion's foyer the previous evening. With protest from them both, Hawke had waved them off and retired to her study, reading through the book the Arishok had loaned her. She had noticed his own notes scribbled here and there at the end of every chapter; unreadable, of course; All of them bearing the markings of a patient scholar. Until she reached the very last page. There, her name had been written amongst the flourishes of unreadable words, punctuated at the very end with the letter "A". An obvious abbreviation of the Arishok's own doing. She had read the writing over and over, trying to translate the meanings without any knowledge of his language; finding herself becoming increasingly annoyed with the cryptic messages she was receiving.

Hawke's eyes now fell upon the heap of armour on the floor by her bed. Without thought, she removed her rest-wear and stood naked before the pile, her hands working her hair into a tight braid. The sizable piece the Arishok had taken off left a long, thick strand too short to braid with the rest of her hair. She let it fall loose from the braid; a single length of hair tightly coiling into a shiny wet curl. Without sound she pulled on her thick, flat-footed knee-high doeskin boots; the dagger still hidden within the lip of her left boot from her drunken encounter with Karasten. Skipping her leg armour all together, she belted together lengths of chainmaille and leather to hang like a long loincloth from her hips. She tightened the buckles until they almost pinched her skin; looping leather straps through the belts, she let them hang for the time being as she donned a heavy leather and chainmaille bra. Over this she pulled on a light harness which held her metal pauldrons snugly on her shoulders. The leather straps buckled onto the harness, ensuring her loincloth stayed in place. The pauldron harness also had an attached flap of chainmaille to protect her back from sneak attacks. Securing her armour and checking her buckles, Hawke chose this time her familiar round shield and sword, which seemed nearly weightless compared to the great sword she used when sparring with the Arishok.

As expected, Aveline and Isabela had been waiting for her in foyer, bickering as they had been the previous day.

"Hawke, this cannot wait any longer." Aveline projected, her voice out crying Isabela's. "The Arishok's patience grows thin; we need to-"

"My problem is more important. If you don't help me, Hawke, Castillon will have my head." Isabela protested, her eyes shining and begging her for her ear.

"Slow down. One at a time." Hawke breathed, raising her hands before her as she approached them from the stairs. "What is going on here?" Hawke listened as both women spoke their minds, her brow furrowing deeper with every word. _This better not stick._

"You mean to tell me you knew of this all along?" She heard herself question after Isabela spoke her words. "This could have been avoided!"

"Yes! I know, and I'm sorry. But if you don't help me get it, he will kill me!" She retorted, pacing this way and that.

"You only think about yourself!" Aveline snapped, her hand flying to the hilt of her blade.

"Enough!" Hawke yelled over the clamour, seething. "First, we help Isabela. Then we deal with the Arishok."

Aveline made a noise of protest, but Hawke waved her off. "I shall not hear it."

_... You don't have to believe me, but I'm sorry._

_Isabela_

Everything was crumbling to dust. Memories flashed before her eyes—the many nights of drinking, sharing stories, and laughing together all fading to nothing. Hawke should have known better, but for once she felt like taking a chance; going against her initial feelings and getting close to the Rivani. A scream ripped through her throat, her fingers tearing through the note Isabela had left her.

"Hawke.." Anders called softly.

"Calm down, luv. There's nothing we can do about her now." Varric soothed, his hand resting on her back. Sadness and disappointment lined his face as much as it lined hers. Merrill cooed softly, clicking her tongue and shaking her head solemnly.

The small group of Qunari standing before her watched her quietly with side long glances, unaware of what transpired. Hawke searched for Karasten among them, but he was no where to be seen. She wasn't even sure if he was fully recovered yet. A pang of guilt echoed through her body, and she wiped away the tears that rolled down her cheeks. "Let's move on. Aveline must be waiting."

With words Hawke straightened herself and swiftly led the her party towards the compound, the group of Qunari silently following her footsteps not far behind. The buildings flew by and blurred into nothing as she fell into her thoughts; her feet guiding her by instinct to the docks. The smell of tar and salt stung her nostrils, but nothing shook her from her memories until she reached the dark gates of the compound.

Aveline greeted her, annoyance and fear tinging her voice. "The Arishok is not in a good mood. It seems you did not show for his audience the other day."

Dread and rememberence hit her like a brick. The Viscount's son had been murdered that day by mother Petrice. She had met her demise by a Sten's deadly arm, but the damage had already been done. In her anger she had forgotten, and returned home to finish her reading. "I have a feeling my absence isn't the only reason for his anger, Aveline."

Aveline patted her shoulder with a sigh before turning to the Qunari guardsman controlling the gate. "I have come for an audience with the Arishok."

"The Arishok will allow it, but not in this number."

"We shall take only a small compliment of our guard."

"The Arishok will allow this."

Hawke's heart beat like a drum as the blackened gate swung open with a droning creak.


	8. Chapter 8 Saar Shok Part I

_Teth a, Arishok. If the symptoms are as you describe them to be, you must return to Par Vollen as soon as possible, with the relic and the human female. I cannot stress the need for your discretion any further. There is only a small window in which this can be treated._

_**Ariqun**_

_The importance of the relic and the matter of concealing this burden is well known. The Relic is within our reach. I request an armada be sent to the Harbour of Kirkwall forthwith. We shall be ready._

_Note, the Burden of the Kossith has been returned to you._

_**Arishok**_

_By the time you have received this, the Armada will be two days from your shores. The book has returned to reliable hands. Anaan esaam Qun. Do not neglect your duty._

_**Ariqun**_

The Arishok lowered his gaze solemnly. He felt the barely dry red body paint flake and crack against his skin as he moved; he listened to the groan of his leather pauldrons as he rolled his shoulders back, his gaze lifting once more to drift to each and every visage of the many Qunari who stood before him. He lips began moving, his voice booming as he made a speech. His frustration and anger flowed through into his words, bringing a grimace to his face.

He would not take these attacks any longer.

The freshly scabbed scratch across Hawke's exposed belly burned and itched uncomfortably as soon as she crossed the threshold of the gate with Aveline and three of her guardsmen. Her breathing came raggedly from her flared nostrils; her eyes wide and scanning the area for any threats. And for her friend, Karasten. If a battle erupted, Hawke wanted to avoid confrontation with the Karasten—she did not want him bleeding by her hands.

Tension hung in the air like a thick fog between the Arishok and Hawke's party as they neared the stairs rising up towards his throne. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw him; his long white hair tousled in the brisk wind, the crease of his brow, and the arc of his raven black horns cutting through the light. His eyes took in her form slowly as she approached, his gaze unwavering but his eyes sparking with a flame once more.

The way he descended the stairs—aloof, arrogant even—made Hawke swallow hard. "Shanedan, Hawke." He stopped a few stairs above the landing; adjusting the axe on his shoulder with a shrug and a roll.

Aveline pushed forward, somewhat shielding Hawke from the Arishok's unyielding gaze. Her hand flung out to keep Hawke from coming to her side, her mouth a grim line. "Greetings, Arishok. We come regarding the elven fugitives who have taken refuse here."

Hawke could see clearly that despite Aveline's height, the Guardswoman's attempt to overtake the conversation by presence was futile. The Arishok's gaze locked onto Hawke's; an expression of esteem running across his features.

"Irrelevant. I would speak to Hawke," He drew her name out, rolling it against his tongue; a side effect of his accent. "About the relic stolen from my grasp."

The floodgate broke open and Hawke clenched her fists, digging her fingernails into palms to pinch back the memories—and the tears. "One of my former companions stole it." She hissed, tears brimming in her eyes. _All that time, everything was a lie._

"Her part was clear. Your admission... Was welcome." The Arishok's gaze wandered to the horizon, as he paced.

"A mission for another time-" Aveline insisted, stepping closer to the Arishok in earnest, only to be met by a silencing finger, and a quiet that hung thick and powerful with energy. All the Arishok had to do was make a sidelong glance, and the group would be set upon. His power and control was made quiet clear.

"No. I am here to satisfy a demand you can not understand, human. But Hawke," He turned his gaze back to the addressee, moving towards her as Aveline fell back; quaking. "You begin to comprehend. You understand how simple greed has deprived us of our homeland. And you now know what the Qun demands." _And what I demand, _his eyes seemed to add.

It was true. Invitingly; dangerously so. "I cannot say otherwise, Arishok." No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't deny the truth. She had been ripped from her home, as well; and even though the circumstances were different, she knew the pain and the desperation. She felt it, even now. The weight of Kirkwall and the memories which anchored her here. She didn't want it anymore, she knew that; but she couldn't let her friends down. She didn't have the heart for it. "But I cannot abandon my brethren. I owe them that, at least."

The Arishok growled and pulled back as Aveline cursed and chastised Hawke under her breath. His axe dropped from his shoulder and hung readily at his side along with his sword. "Hawke, what are you talking about?" She questioned, grabbing her arm and roughly pulling her aside. "One wrong move and he will set the city aflame."

Hawke felt a lump forming in her throat. "I know, Aveline." She thought of seeing Karasten, his blood red gaze glowing in the darkness the night he found her drunk at the tavern; of the Arishok, who haunted her dreams and captured her lips as his. "There is a lot you don't know yet."

Not a word was spoken by the many Qunari who gathered around the small group. The silence was filled by the scrap of metal and leather against stone, the breathing of the men surrounding her and the group, the wind whistling through the streets of Kirkwall. Hawke shook her head, her mouth flying open in protest as the Arishok muttered two of the few Qunari words she knew.

"Vinek Kathas." His eyes never disengaged from Hawke's as the shadow of many lances loomed above their heads.

A gurgling scream cut the silence as a spear found it's mark, impaling one of the guard. Another shortly followed, suffering the same fate as his comrade. Hawke felt blood spray hotly against her back and she dropped into a defensive stance, her hand pulling her sword free from it's sheath. Aveline shouted something, but the roar of the Qunari drowned out her words. The guards-woman's hand sharply grabbed her shoulder, yanking Hawke back a few steps; encouraging her to retreat, annoyance and desperation burning in her eyes. She shook her head her lips working out a response lost in the deafening sounds of violence slowly breaking out across the city. The Qunari moved fast; any words spoken in attempt to quell in onslaught would have been wasted. This had been carefully planned.

Hawke pulled her shoulder free from Aveline's grip sharply, a new anger flowing through her veins. The Arishok's anger was understandable, but this attack on her friends was not. Could he not let them flee, peacefully? Had his respect been a ruse?

"Get to the keep, Aveline. I will not argue!" Hawke shouted, watching the Guardswoman, for the first time, shrink back with hopelessness filling her gaze. Her mouth formed the words _stay safe_ as she turned and ran for the gates.

Hawke barely had time to dodge a spear as it grazed her cheek, cutting through the sandstone thereafter; embedding itself amongst the bodies of the fallen soldiers and thickening blood. She whirled, her free hand flying to her bleeding cheek, an arrow embedding itself with a thunk in the shield still hooked to her back. She stumbled forward from the blow, her stomach catching the lowered bare shoulder of a Qunari whose face was hidden by a helmet. The air rushed out from her lungs and she instinctively bent over, her one free bloodied hand pushing against the chest of the Qunari who began lifting her up over his shoulder. Her knee drove into his stomach as she gasped for air, her sword falling to the ground to be tread upon by the other Qunari soldiers rushing towards the gates. The Qunari grunted in response, but was unfazed; the python grip on his arm squeezing around her legs, preventing further movement. Her hand flew up and gripped his thick, curving horn; her hand slipping on the soft red ribbon wrapped thoughtfully around it.


	9. Chapter 9 Saar Shok Part II

_Karasten._

He was running now; pushing out onto the street with the other Qunari, somehow managing not to step on the bodies of the dead guardsmen covering the ground. Hawke could see the Arishok following their path, surrounded by Arvaarads, Saarebas', and Stens; his personal guard. A cluster of eight other Qunari followed Karasten and Hawke; most likely her friend's 'brothers-in-arms'. They ran towards the docks, but the Arishok took most of the horde with him, cutting a path towards High Town.

A dock-hand skittered across the path of Hawke and the Karasten, his eyes widening in fear as the men, twice his size, passed him without giving him attention. The smell of freshly cut and shaped wood stained with seawater filled Hawke's nostrils as they ran across the docks, alongside a huge foreign-looking warship. Hawke's fingers curled into Karasten's long ash-coloured hair as they boarded the swaying boat; her breath coming out in strangled gasps as she slowly regained use of her lungs.

The masts seemed to nearly touch the clouds themselves, and were draped with great, thick strips of cloth hanging bunched so as to not catch the wind. The forms of some Viddathari and other Qunari gathered on the deck, probably guarding it; but Karasten seperated from his squad and carried her below deck, the ship groaning beneath his heavy steps.

Hawke heard her own sobs echoing against the wide enclosed hallway; the tears were falling again and she cursed herself for acting so weak in front of her Karasten. Even if they had reached the keep, Hawke knew that her friends' efforts to resist would be hopeless—the Qunari were too many, too strong. She hoped for their sake that they had managed to escape with their lives—she knew she couldn't handle anymore deaths attached to her name; deaths of cherished ones, at least.

She had been lost in thought—her eyes soft and unfocussed—when Karasten walked into a humble-sized room, closed the door, and softly set her on the edge of a Qunari-sized bed. The size of this bed dwarfed the cot Karasten had been confined to several days ago—what a Qunari deemed both modest and comfortable, a normal human deemed huge and fancy. The bed looked like it was able to hold two and a half Qunari—comfortably. The sheets and blankets were soft and a creamy white colour; almost rivalling the bed spreads at Hawke's mansion in suppleness and quality.

Hawke went to run her hand along the fabric, but she was intercepted; Karasten's large clawed fingers wrapping around her comparatively smaller wrist. She sprung into action without thinking—she blinked and her dagger was in her free hand; it's sharp edge glinting in a ray of sunshine peeking through a wind-blown, curtained window. The tears blurred her eyes, making it impossible for her to see Karasten's now unmasked visage as they faced each other, frozen in position. It was the energy that vibrated soothingly across his skin onto hers that calmed her—warmth, respect, understanding, and a flurry of other emotions spreading out from his fingertips to her wrist. Hawke's dagger fell from her hand, and it skidded across the room as Karasten kicked it further away. His hand loosened on her wrist and he laced his thick fingers with hers, his free hand's thumb running softly across each eye, wiping away her tears.

Hawke opened her mouth to speak—to apologize for her actions; for appearing weak in front of him. She could see him clearly now; his red eyes catching her gaze, the red bands of silk following the curves of his darkening horns, the smoothness of his face, the very masculine shape of his jaw, and the fall of hair which tickled the skin of her breasts as he leaned towards her. His taloned fingers traced the path of her tears, which had left trails of clean skin amongst the fine layer of dirt and blood; his thumb pressing against the redness of her partially opened lips.

"No, kadan." Karasten spoke, his chest rumbling with the deepness of his voice. Hawke found herself unable to break away from his crimson eyes—they were focused and deep; thoughtful, even. His hands curled under her bottom, and her picked her up, pulling her against him as he moved towards the middle of the bed. His actions were careful, gentle even, as he set her down once more. Karasten was now kneeling on the bed, but still managed to tower at least a head taller over Hawke.

Buckles were undone; the chinking sound of silverite chainmaille, and hard leather hitting the floor echoed throughout the room as Karasten slowly removed Hawke's pauldrons, shield, and back protector. The blood made odd patterns on her back—a result of the links of her chainmaille deflecting a small amount of the blood that hit the base of her spine. The loss of most of her armour made Hawke feel unshrouded—the exposed skin of her arms, shoulders, belly, and tops of her breasts goose-bumped in the chilly air.

Karasten's eyes simply fell to the plumpness of her lips, his fingers threading through her hand as she raised it between them. The energy that bounced off his skin continued to grow in intensity, pulsing through his fingertips into her hand, which prickled with electricity. His mere presence and power was intoxicating to Hawke—she did not feel fear, frustration, or possessive lust. Instead she felt Karasten's energy as a wave of stability and power, with an underlying sense of urgency and passion.

Their knees touched as Karasten moved towards her, his head dipping forward to her level, their foreheads meeting and his other hand cupping the side of her face. The cut on her cheek prickled as his thumb caressed the skin just below it; dried blood flaking off the paleness of her skin. His mouth was open, and he was breathing deeply; his eyes unable to break their gaze as they rose up to meet her eyes.

"Karasten," Hawke murmured, heat spreading across her face from reasons she never thought would surface for her friend. Her heart beat fast, threatening to push free from her ribs and burst from her chest. Her hands moved around his back, and her fingers knotted themselves in his long sooty silver hair. She expected herself to be shedding blood and tears on the battlefield—but found his warm body more welcome than bruises.

Moving in closer, Karasten gently caught her lower lip in his mouth, pulling on it with a gentle suck before releasing it thoughtfully. He pulled back, his breath caressing her cheeks, smelling of mint; he planted a light kiss on her lips tentatively, unhurriedly; gauging her reaction. Hawke's body shook as a powerful wave of energy washed over her. She pulled him towards her then, her lips hungrily tasting him for the first time. Excitement shot like electricity from his skin as she responded, and he sighed against her mouth; his hand on her back as he pushed her down to the creamy covers.

Karasten's large form hovered over hers as she lay supine; their lips met and parted passionately, and Karasten's hand free hand wandered across her belly, over her scratch. His fingers pushed aside her loincloth and panties, and he touched the supple skin of her cleft with a bestial growl. She was mostly hairless except for a dark strip at the very top. She was hot there, and wet; but his colder, light touch made her jump, her fingers knotting deep into his hair.

Karasten panted, watching Hawke as he petted her secret place, making her arch her back. His claws lightly grazing against her skin, he raised himself above her, his eyes travelling down to her reddening cleft. His lips followed his eyes, leaving a trail of kisses over her covered breasts, crossing her stomach until he reached the place between her legs. "I risk much, Kadan," He rumbled, his pointer finger dipping into her hot folds. "But from this moment I live for you."

The pad of his finger pressed against her tight opening teasingly before moving up to rub circles around her clit. At that very moment he grazed his teeth against the lips of her cleft, his tongue leaving tiny trails here and there, where no man had ever been.

Hawke's back arched and she moved against him, embarrassment washing over her as he flicked his tongue against her button, his finger sinking into the heat of her sex. No man had ever done this to her—it had always been about her partner, but Karasten seemed to take satisfaction from her reactions. He made no move to enter her with any part but his fingers.

They plunged deep into her, curling against that special spot within her; his tongue flicking and circling around her clit as a tingling feeling grew in her belly. Hawke let a moan break free from her lips; her noises met by the growls emanating from Karasten's throat. She bucked her hips urgently against him as that feeling grew and spread; his tongue and fingers moving faster and faster. Suddenly, Hawke felt her insides clench as her orgasm broke free, washing over her. She felt herself flex and tighten around the Qunari's finger as the ecstasy gripped her and refused to let go. His finger pumped slowly in and out, but he moved his mouth away; his eyes watching her body and secret place in the throes of orgasm.

"From this moment, I am yours."


	10. Chapter 10 The Curse Takes Hold

Blood soaked the decadent carpets of the Viscount's Keep, darkening the red to a deep burgundy. It's metallic scent hung thickly in the air, accompanying the strange silence which overtook the city of Kirkwall. A large contingent of Qunari rested on the rise of stairs leading up to the now vacant throne of the recent viscount. The bodies of the dead had been long since removed from the castle, and were now burning in the courtyard; moved there by the might of the recuperating soldiers.

The Arishok sat at the top of the stairs, his arms resting against the tops of this large, muscular thighs. Several fresh welts criss-crossed his chest, blossoming with splatters of deep red blood, and a sanguine smear highlighted a shallow slash on his left cheek. His temples pulsed as a trickle of blood pearled on his skin and rolled off towards the cold stone floor.

Several bottles of Sweet-Wine had been opened, and cups had been passed around filled to the brim with the succulent alcoholic nectar. The Arishok himself partook, along with his soldiers; the liquid coating his throat in warmth as he downed it in one mouthful. The beverage was refreshing and true to it's name; with hints of a foreign fruit and sugared honey, it was difficult to distinguish the amount of alcohol within the brew itself.

It was not long until the Arishok had nearly finished a bottle to himself. And this was normal; alcohol never had much of an effect on the War Leader, so it was common for him to partake in a large amount in times of rest. Many Qunari could do the same with little consequence, so they exploited this strength and did so whenever it was appropriate. A drink in the honor of the Qun was well earned.

Ash fell from the dark, tumultuous sky like generous puffs of snow. The acrid stench of burning filth permeated High Town, blown up from from the smouldering, cleansing fires of Low Town's burning factories and shanties, by the unrelenting wind. A cloud of vapour rose above the warriors as they moved out from the conquered keep, their bodies shielding the Arishok who stood in their midst, his great black horns curving high, nearly invisible in the midnight sky save for the glint of the golden bands which defined their arches. The Arishok stood at least a head taller than his companions, and looked nearly immortal in the eyes of the passersby who lined the streets as the Qunari guard escorted the War Lord towards the docks.

The Arishok could feel a strange heat spreading from his belly as he moved in formation, surrounded by his quiet but excited guard. He could feel the warmth as it flowed through every vein, filling every limb and digit with it's welcome heat. It was late spring in Kirkwall, but the wind still managed to hold the bite of winter in it's breath, and the blossoming heat was welcome.

The odd thoughts and sensations following however, were not. He had thought of her as hit cut down the bas on his way to the Keep; the look in her eyes as she denied him—and the Qun. The way her mouth had dropped open from a stiff line as she fell into a fighting stance on basic instinct. The way her face had fallen when the Arishok had given the order to attack. He had watched how she moved, dodging his Sten's spears without blinking, without thought. And his mind began to wander to dangerous things; how she would move and bend under his own touch, how her brow would crease if he pushed himself against her.

It was getting worse.

The Arishok could smell the sharp scent of salt as they neared the docks. The wind whipped his hair, staining it with the familiar essence of the sea. A sense of order and comfort washed over him—it would not be long now until Par Vollen would be within sight, the remedy for this ailment within his grasp. The pale mirage of sails, the sound of rippling fabric and groaning wood were welcome sights and sounds to the Qunari as they alighted the docks of the waterfront.

A great ship creaked and bumped against the dock, covered in a layer of silver ash. Shadowed forms moved along the expansive deck, occasionally revealed to be Qunari by the lamps hanging along the length of the boat. There was a solemn drone of whispers from those that remained; prisoners and viddathari alike. A large, heavy plank was lowered and the group moved swiftly on board, unceremoniously. Tonight they would depart, leaving a sizable part of the army to hold what remained of Kirkwall. The city had fallen to the Qun, and soon it would be rebuilt under it.

An excited flurry of whispers and exclamations swallowed the ship as the Qunari rejoined their brothers-in-arms, the viddathari their missing family members. As the ship prepared to move out with the other galleons, the celebration truly began. Food and foreign wines were passed about to all those on board. The viddathari were boisterous, but the Kossith, although jovial, rejoiced quietly compared to the converts, smiling to each other over giant mugs of brew and through bites of fresh food.

The Arishok joined his men for some time, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Was he successful in capturing the Basalit-an, to add to the triumph of retrieving the Tome of Koslun? The pirate bas was being held on another ship, awaiting questioning upon their return to Par Vollen, he was told. And the basalit-an was being held below deck.

New wave of heat washed over the Arishok; his limbs felt light and tingly, and he found his mind and lips wander more often than usual. He found himself gathering a small amount of food on a plate; cheese, fresh bread, cooked meat, and strange red fruit, all before descending into the hull of the galleon.

A hand curled around Hawke's in the darkness. She lay among the thick downy bedding of the mattress, curled up on her side, Karasten's steady breathing at her back calling her back to sleep. But she remained awake, her eyelids fluttering against the sharp light of the large candles Karasten had lit earlier in the night. The gravity of what had happened between Hawke and her friend had not settled in quiet yet. She lay wrapped in her blankets, the leather and chainmaille of her scant armour still biting into her bare skin, the wetness of her arousal still remaining between her legs even though more than a few hours had passed.

Hawke's memories of the events only hours before were muddled from the grip of reverie which still, even now, beckoned her return. But she felt the heaviness of watchful eyes skim across the exposed bits of her skin, raising goosebumps upon her limbs, and she could not sleep. Yawning, she moved her arm and tucked it beneath her head, and gazed through thick lashes about the room, the odd sensation of being watched growing. Her dark eyes flitted over a huge, dark form standing in the shadows by the door.

"Basalit-an."

Hawke rose quickly and without thought from the bed, her heart threatening to break through her ribs. Her eyes widened in shock as her fears were confirmed—as the Arishok's features stood out sharply in the candlelight as the warlord stepped forward.


	11. Chapter 11 You Belong to Me

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies to those who have been waiting for the next chapter. You have a friend of mine to thank to finally get me inspired into writing. If you were having trouble getting to the new chapter before, that was because I uploaded it forgetting that I didn't even finish it... So the notifications of a new chapter went our before I could take down the chapter again. Sorry, loves!

You may get confused with this chapter... But I URGE you to read it slowly! And please don't worry about Karasten... He will be back.

PLEASE VIEW this story this story with 1/4 story width... You can find the story width adjusters in the top right-hand side, just above the chapter drop down menu.

_Band I was listening to While Writing: TYR_

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><p><em>Chapter 11: You Belong to Me<em>

_"I secretly longed for something which had never existed."_

**The Arishok stood at the threshold**, and she could see his pale eyes dancing even from the great distance that separated them. He had been out to battle again; it seemed that this great Warlord could not escape his duties even when on a rush trip home.

The great barges had paused along a stark, mountainous island chain inhabited by clans of fair-looking mercenaries. They did not seem to take the Qunari landing with much joy, and knowing the domineering Kossith, they had probably inadvertently provoked them. Nevertheless, the Arishok met his foe among his men as one of them. A quality Hawke had not seen among many a warrior and general alike. It was something that swords-woman deeply appreciated about the Qunari; their odd gender roles aside, the Qunari fought as one and never sought glory by sabotaging his brothers. Honor was something Hawke held dear, even though she was sore to admit she had broken it many times.

Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice the great Qunari as he crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him. There was an unceremonious thunk as his shoulder armor loosened and fell to the ground. Her eyes had fallen, half-lidded, but they widened once more as she gazed at the pile of hardened leather on the floor.  
>This was very odd, to say the least. The Arishok had always treated his armor with the utmost care. What had happened to change him thusly?<br>Hawke stiffened, her back achingly uncomfortably against the bolted-down chair. His demeanor was certainly abnormal. He did not usually call at such a late hour. Had he come to teach her something that he had forgotten earlier in the day?

"Arishok," She spoke softly, her eyes wandering from the thick stump of a candle flickering nearby to his towering frame (she was positive he stood over eight feet tall, dwarfing her by three feet). "I did not expect you so late."

The Arishok looked upon her, his expression unreadable as it always had been, except for those strange, time stopping moments when he had claimed her with his Mouth in Kirkwall... Those advances had abruptly stopped as soon as they had begun their journey, and Hawke had seen little of him besides he occasional lessons he had given her. She thought suddenly of Karasten, who she had only seen in passing since he had brought her upon the ship-that hazy, drugged evening of passion that they had shared before he left her without a word to the Arishok. Karasten had been her friend, but her heart twisted now at the thought of him. Hawke was hurt. Why did he avoid her?

"Shanedan, Hawke." The Arishok's rumbling voice pulled her from reverie, his eyes still holding that strange, flickering shine. Her eyes dragged over his form. His pale, greyish skin was splattered with dried blood, but it was hard for Hawke to tell where the body paint and the blood ended. Besides this, the Arishok seemed strangely bare, and it took her a moment to realize that everything save for his lower clothing was gone, including his golden adornments.  
>"Am I in the wrong room?" Hawke suddenly gasped, a blush creeping across her face. "I did have more of that wine. I'll find my way out."<p>

The Arishok did not speak, but he assumed a posture that held more understanding than what a sentence could convey. He drew himself up, straightening his spine, his hair falling forward across his shoulders, between his ebony horns, partially shading his face but somehow outlining his eyes all the more. His horns curved melted into the darkness and seemed to be made of the blackness itself.

Hawke, who had made to move out of her chair, gasped and collapsed back into it's hardness, her body tightening not in fear, but in a sudden grip of arousal. She struggled to hold on the the coattails of decorum; her lips passing gasped words: "It is late for a lesson, don't you think?"

And then suddenly he was before her, his movements blurred by the passionate intoxication which overtook her. She remembered all at once how much she had wanted him, and the realization hit her like a delicious wall of pleasure, leaving her tingling in the most secret of places.

"That is for me to decide, bas." The Arishok drummed out, the normally negatively-construed word taking on a wholly new meaning as he leaned forward, his fingers lightly running along her hair. Hawke took a deep breath, her eyes closing briefly, her hand smoothing across his hardened chest as he leaned in a discretely smelled the nape of her neck. "Arishok, if you come any closer I will not be able to contain myself." She bit her lips closed at the realization of what she just said.

The Arishok grunted and knotted his fingers in her hair, accepting her challenge; his teeth lightly grazing that especially sensitive spot on her neck. A moan cut through the silence, and it was her own. Hawke felt the Arishok's lips tighten into a smile on her neck, and she briskly pushed him away. Her palms pushed into his chest, her fingers knotting into the thick strands of his snowy white hair.

"You do not know what you are asking for." Hawke breathed, her mouth falling open, her body tensing, holding herself back from straddling the Qunari.

"I do." The Arishok simply replied, his hands clenching on the softness of her hips, slowly edging down her pants.

Hawke's eyes fluttered closed briefly. How long had she waited for this? And he was mercilessly teasing her! Leaning into him with all of her weight, the warrior woman pushed him back towards the bed, her hands drawing out the laces of his pants hastily but with steady hands. The Arishok managed to pull apart the front clasp of her pants before pulling them down over her well-rounded rump.

By the time the back of his knees hit the back of the bed, Hawke had revealed his pulsing, swollen member. The great Qunari warlord eased himself onto the bed, watching Hawke as she dipped low and greedily took his member into her mouth. His member was definitely larger than anything she had experienced before, but her enthusiasm left no room for pause, and she took as much of it into her mouth as she possibly could. Her work surprisingly drew from him low gasps and rumbling growls.

The Arishok's member grew startlingly larger, and Hawke pulled away with a gasp, wiggling out of her trousers. The candlelight revealed the wet sheen of her engorged mound to the warlord's eyes, and Hawke unceremoniously pulled off her shirt to let him feast upon her fully naked form. The Arishok moved to pull her under him, but she quickly straddled him, her hand pressing against his chest as she took his member and rubbed it along her wet slit. The Arishok seemed content with this, pressing the pad of his thumb against her clitoris, moving this way and that, finding the perfect spot and rhythm to urge forth her moans. This continued for some time until Hawke could no longer handle the pressure. Her breath hitching in her throat, the warrior woman pushed his member against her entrance, lowering herself slightly on it. A sharp pain shot from her opening as the Arishok stretched her entrance. She bit her lip and moved gently on the head until she grew more accustomed to his large size, pleasure overtaking the brief moment of pain.

She felt the Arishok's claws bite into the soft flesh of her hips as he gradually gained entrance into her softness. He was impatient, and this surprised Hawke. His hips rose up to meet her with a quick, powerful thrust, and the sensation of his girth stretching her and brushing against that certain spot within her overwhelmed her. Caught in an intense moment of pleasure, the Arishok quickly withdrew and rolled her beneath him while she was stunned. His fingers circled around her clit vigorously, moistening her passage for his reentry, his member pushing against her as his free hand pressed against her belly, holding her down.

Hawke looked at the Arishok, whose eyes remained focused but half-lidded with lust. He towered over her now, giving her a view she never thought she would see; She wanted him badly... Her hips rose up slightly to accommodate his height, the tip of his member pressing sharply against her tight entrance, his thumb swirling against her most sensitive spot. They seemed to remain locked in this position forever, and Hawke opened her mouth to protest, her hips gyrating against his member. Her body tingled, but she longed to be filled with him, to be complete.

The Arishok, his face curtained by a waterfall of very long white hair, could not hold back the shine of possession and satisfaction in his eyes. He waited a long moment, his free hand cupping her bottom to support her as he drove himself within her once more, unforgiving. A deep sigh rumbled over the wet sounds of their rutting; the Arishok had not felt this sensation in a very long time, but that was for Qun... And this, this was for something completely different. It was blasphemous; he was signing away all he lived for, but it had never felt so right. With his _basalit-an _quaking beneath his movements, a very irrational, hidden part of his mind longed for more moments like this, for an escape from the frigidness of the Qun.

A growl tore through the darkness, bursting forth from the Arishok's lips as he quickened his pace, his thumb doubling it's speed as it worked against her spot. Hawke writhed against him, that familiar aching feeling building up within her; his movements bringing her startlingly close to her orgasm. Getting up on her elbows, she let her eyes fly over his form, admiring how beautiful he looked even when engaged in such a primal act. A sheen of sweat covered his skin, outlining his rippling muscles and the sharp masculinity of his face. She could see his length move in and out of her at an unrelenting rhythm, the look on his face telling her than he was coming near to his orgasm as well.

Suddenly, that ache swallowed her whole her, growing very strong. Hawke's fingers gripped the sheets, her hips bucking as her orgasm came to it's peak. Her eyes rolled back into the darkness of her skull, the feeling of the Arishok cleaving her in two with his strokes and the waterfall of her orgasm making her body shiver. His breathing was becoming quick and ragged, strung with softly spoken words in Qunari. His thumb still worked on her button, and as the first orgasm began to fade, another was building, quickly taking hold. Hawke's head flew back, her body shaking with the rise of the new orgasm which began rising within her. An image began forming against her eyelids; a flash of crimson fire, the pale shade of ash...

Hawke's eyes flew open as her dam burst, looking at the great figure who grunted against the quaking walls of her warmth. He rose as if carved of fine marble above her, his full length pressed within her, his angular features slackened as he pumped in and out of her tensing and releasing sex. His eyes, however, remained open; bright red and unblinking. _I am still yours, kadan._

_Karasten?_ She thought desperately.

The red ribbon wrapped around his horns shined dully, his sooty hair sweeping past his shoulders and clinging to his damp skin. His hand gripped her bottom, pulling her to meet him as his pace grew more desperate and rough. A scream of pleasure ripped through Hawke's throat, and her back arched, her fingers curling into the thick down of the bed. The Karasten above her signaled his release with a bestial growl, burying his member to the hilt within her shivering body. After a long, breathless moment he pumped into her gently, savoring the feeling of her tightness. Hawke collapsed into the softness of the bed, her eyes fluttering open to look at her lover.

_Karasten..._

The Arishok, still inside her, leaned in towards her and brushed his lips against hers softly. It was odd, considering her so breakable considering what he had finished doing to her moments before. If she had been skinnier, he knew that she would not be able to walk. But she was not exempt for bruises and soreness, he was sure. The Arishok hovered above her, his hand sliding up to stroke away the hair that clung to her damp forehead. Even now, she was beautiful. She had always been beautiful, if not in looks than in the way she moved, spoke... Thought.

Hawke peered up at the Arishok, suppressing the look of utter shock at the vision she had just experienced. At once she felt incredibly guilty, but she pushed it aside, a smile forming on her face as the Arishok kissed her. This was something she had craved for the longest time. And he was risking so much...

"_Kadan_ no longer seems like a sufficient title," The Arishok rumbled, killing the silence; his lips once again pressing against hers, lingering for longer than they hand before. Hawke responded with enthusiasm, but the warlord pulled away. "It puzzles me."

Hawke searched the Arishok's pale eyes, a memory tickling that back of her mind, but not making itself quite so clear. "Then let us speak another language, entirely." She breathed, her hand gripping one his thick ebony horns and pulling him down; their lips meeting and parting with urgency.


	12. Chapter 12 Reunion

Author's Note: I couldn't keep myself from writing, so here is another chapter. The plot thickens!

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><p><strong><em>Chapter 12: Reunion<br>_**

_"__You can't keep pretending that You don't even know Me_..."

The familiar sound of groaning wood had become simple background ambiance, but the sound of heavy chain bouncing against the thick wood to sink deep into the depths of the deep blue was something Hawke did not expect to hear.

Her heart leaping into her throat, she stood and quickly tied her long, dark hair into a roguish knot. Her armour rested, polished, on a well-maintained but clearly old armour stand which was bolted, like much of the furniture, to the thick wooden floor. They had not nearly travelled far enough to have reached Par Vollen, so the anchor dropping and the sudden stillness of the ship left Hawke feeling somewhat apprehensive and unaware-something she did not quite enjoy, being a warrior who exercised caution. She knew that they were visiting a island chain, but even after the Arishok had engaged the less than cooperative folk, the Qunari had not taken anchor. This sudden change in decision left Hawke feeling less safe, especially considering the Arishok's rushed absence after...

Hawke shook her head, straightening her loose shirt and worn out cotton pants. Most of her belongings still in the mansion in Kirkwall, the warrior owned only what she had been brought here in that fateful evening. Wearing armour day and night was hardly agreeable with her during such a long journey.

For a moment she caught herself searching for her blade, but cursed under her breath, remembering how the Arishok had removed most of her weapons a few days after they had set sail. The Arishok had disappeared with her weapons, and another, more precious thing had been sorely missed, too. Now was a good enough time as any other to check out what was happening on deck. She silently hoped that she would finally see Karasten, and perhaps get a chance to talk to him. There were so many questions, but she pushed them all aside.

It had been a fair amount of time since Hawke had seen the Arishok last. He had released himself inside her with urgency several more times during the night, making it his duty to bring her to shuddering climax each and every time. He spoke not after that sparse exchange of words, and the warrior wondered if he had truly taken her whispered exclamation to heart. Hawke sighed, now. He had given in, but it was nothing more than frustration. How could the Arishok, a supporting pillar of the Qun, think of her as different from doubtless others? Despite the rigidness of the Qunari belief system, she doubted that the army departed Par Vollen for great lengths of time without succumbing to temptation.

Hawke was just another he had sown his seed with. She had been willing, so obviously so that it made her blush to remember. He had seen this, and how could he have not noticed? From the moment she had first met him, padding towards his dais in a lumbering yet somehow refined fashion, she wanted to get closer to him. Her thoughts were innocent enough at first, but she did note right away the strange ways in which he was enticingly attractive. His hair had been a length shorter, then, and seemed to be freshly cut, sweeping over his collarbone to rest against his bronzed-grey skin. The Arishok was powerful; he knew what he wanted and that was a thing that tugged at something deep within the warrior. But to him, she had been nothing special, besides the fact that she was a sword-bearing woman (something she knew he wanted to question, but only for a brief moment). He was the Arishok, the leader of the _whole_ Qunari army, and he had seen many oddities since his arrival-that much he made perfectly clear.

"_You hired someone more competent, and now stand in their shadow pretending it is yours." He rumbled, pausing a moment before leaning forward, bracing his elbow against his hardened, armoured thigh. "You demean her accomplishment. Get out of my sight before I bother lifting my sword."_

_This comment had made Hawke shift ever so slightly, her brow creasing. She did not think that this Qunari would compliment her so, but rather admonish her willingness to participate in such a tryst. Still, the dwarf's deception cut deep; he had promised her some much-needed profits, and the work had already been done. She was not leaving the compound without reward for putting her neck out._

"_He had big plans for your recipe." Hawke intercepted, stepping forward, her skin unnoticeably crawling as she felt the Arishok's gaze fall upon her form studiously. "I was promised a piece of those profits."_

_The Arishok, who had settled back in his chair upon thinking he had resolved this issue, creased his brow and sat forward once more. His face remained unmoved but the tension of his muscles and the sharpness of his voice told the group gathered before him otherwise. He did not like this, not at all. The Qunari apparently did not like hearing of debts they were not aware of._

"_Dwarf, did your imaginary bargain make promises on my behalf?"_

_Silence permeated the compound, and Hawke rolled her shoulders, looking down at the nervous dwarf as he wrung his hands and let his gaze fall. "I—uh-expected your wisdom to be more profitable." He muttered quickly, a flash of fear crossing his face as the Arishok sized him up much like a predator would observe his prey._

_The Arishok leaned back once more, his eyes breaking from the scene before him to rest at the patch of dusty ground between his knees, in the space between his great boots. Electricity filled the air; Hawke could tell that the Qunari Lord had been thinking, but it had only taken a moment for him to come to a decision. It was remarkable how he could order his men into action without words, but in subtle body language only._

_Tension hung thickly in the air already, and the soldiers about him tensed. A particular Qunari to his left had drawn himself to attention first, his blood red eyes glinting dangerously, his thick, ropey arm raising his spear. This Qunari was familiar to Hawke, but it was obvious friendly conversation was not welcome at this moment. Hawke flinched as the Arishok stood faster than she thought the large man could be able to stand. Her hand grazed the hilt of her sword, even though it was clear his anger was directed towards the squat, red-haired merchant by her side._

_The Arishok's raw, primal voice cut through the tension, but only managed to thicken it in it's wake. "Then you will _pay_ on my behalf."_

_Hawke's eyes had been fixated on him, then; her mouth a drawn out line, but inside she was gasping and quivering. She had not known a man to wield power with such will and grace, and not waver into corruption. Every Qunari here was ready to snap at the drop of a pin; their reins were in his hands and one could blink without noticing the Arishok's silent command. All of this was knee-weakeningly... Sexy._

"_Sod it all. Take your coin. Take whatever." The Dwarf sputtered in fear, pushing a handful of coins into Hawke's hands before stalking away from the dais. It seemed the dwarf could not get away fast enough, but not without peppering the silence with a few choice words about _oxmen _and _dog lords_... Whatever that meant..._

_The Arishok had dismissed her after that exchange, and his comment about her need of coin had cut away what compliments he had given her. It hurt to think that others saw her as one simply searching for coin... But wasn't that the truth?_

He had shared with her many months later his views on their first meeting-she was still unsure whether the act of greed he mentioned was directed simply towards the dwarf, or towards her as well. She had been frustrated then, and turned her back on him to leave. It surprised her to have him petition her continued presence with a single word: _"hold"_.

It was her surprise and curiosity that made her turn on heel—and perhaps only a touch of yearning. She was sure the Arishok would let her leave of her own accord. After all, she was merely _bas._ What could her ear lend that another could not? The look in his eyes made it clear that he saw otherwise. Later, Hawke would come to realise that the Arishok was bestowing upon her a particularly profound gift-he was teaching her the ways of the Qun. Not out of desperation, but because he saw within her not the potential to understand, but her willingness and ability to learn.

The Arishok had begun to speak then, punctuating his disgusted view of Kirkwall with the gravelly utterance, _"You turn from me. Do you turn as easily from all this... Chaos?"_

Hawke had answered shortly then, but her view was clear and it had made the Arishok pause longer than he normally would have. It was probably at this moment that he realised her apparent longing for something different, otherwise he never would've explained the importance of _roles._

To Hawke it was then a foolish thought had taken root in her mind, and even though see pushed it away and dismissed it at every occasion, her feelings for the towering Qunari went beyond friendship. And sometimes it seemed that the Arishok reflected her feelings...

Hawke blinked, her eyes unfocussed and blurry as she recovered from her thoughts. She had just began alighting the creaking stairs that led up to the main deck, and as her gaze cleared, she looked up and saw with relief the painted Kossith warriors who went about their business on deck. It seemed that the dropped anchor had created more traffic than usual on deck, and the huge ship swayed ever so slightly as it bumped against what was probably a dock. Reaching the top of the stairs, the bright sunlight beating down on the top of her head, Hawke braced herself against the door frame.

The ship had indeed dropped anchor, and it floated a distance away from the shore, it's hull bumping against the straight drop of the sea floor shelf. The water on the shore side of the boat was shallow enough to easily wade through by human standards, and to the Qunari the water barely brushed their knees. It seemed like a great part of the remaining qunari soldiers were returning from battle, laden with the spoils of what was a very drawn out skirmish. Crates were pulled back to the ship by make-shift rafts and recovered life boats, undoubtedly filled with food and necessities. The Qunari never seemed to take more than what was necessary.

Hawke weaved her way between the huge Qunari, her eyes gliding from body to body. Where was Karasten in this frenzy? Leaning against the rail of the ship, she peered towards the shore listlessly, longing for the heaviness of her sword and shield, for the companionship of her lost friend. She almost lost herself to memory when she idly turned to look at the passing Qunari, he eye catching a familiar shine of red she had not seen in a long time. Stunned, the disarmed warrior woman blinked, straightening from her leaning position on the study rail.

There, several meters away, among the quickly growing number of crates, was a partially-helmeted Qunari with very long soot-colored hair, weaved together to form a single, very long braid. His skin was a pale grey that somehow, when the sun hit it, shone gold; outlining the smoothness of his muscles and the 'v' of his hipbones. Although she was quite a distance from him, she could see that his eyes carried a familiar shade of red so akin to freshly spilled blood. Morbid as it was, the Karasten shared this very same eye color, and Hawke had always found it strikingly beautiful. The Qunari's mannerisms were similar, if not more reserved; sad even.

Suddenly, Hawke's heart skipped a beat, and an-oh-so familiar ache found it's way back into her heart. She had seen the Karasten after he had disappeared the night he took her aboard-but that encounter had been fleeting and it seemed like he had made a point of avoiding her since then. At that time, his avoidance had driven her to tears, like the sight of him now was close to doing.

_What have I done to you?_

The question refused to fade away into the back of her mind, and she found herself moving towards the qunari, almost not of her own awaking volition. Her eyes fixed on the Karasten, who was unaware of her approach, his lips forming words of a different language as his spoke with his brethren. She was so close to him now, and she was certain than this was her sorely missed friend. Old scars criss-crossed his chest, and were familiar to her; others were clearly fresh as they had been bandaged. Despite this, the Qunari did not seem distressed. But Hawke's heart gave a single, wretched twist.

_Is he happy without my presence?_

Hawke stood by his side now, tears stinging her eyes and threatening to spill over as she gripped the smoothness of his relaxed arm. "Karasten." There was no need for questions, she knew who he was. So much seemed different about him, and it had not been long that they had been separated. She noticed with alarm what his helmet had hidden: one of his large, beautiful horns were missing. It seemed like it had been cleanly cut halfway through it's length, but thankfully the other remained in all of it's beauty. She felt a wet heat spill over her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away.

The Karasten flinched beneath her touch, his companions growing silent and moving away as soon as she called his name. His companion's departure was out of embarrassment more than anything; their inability to speak the common tongue was seen as a weakness and they did not want to be publicly called out on it. Hawke opened her mouth to speak, to question him, but she was interrupted as the great Qunari stood and faced her._ "_Not here," He simply murmured, his eyes flashing with pain. Not another word was spoken, and the Karasten moved away, cutting through the crowd, leaving Hawke to watch him as he moved.

It became suddenly clear that she was to follow. The look he threw over his shoulder confirmed that this was the intention of his departure. Heart beating in her chest like a drum, Hawke squeezed through the press of the Qunari, following Karasten as he disappeared down the stairs into the warm, damp hull of the ship.

* * *

><p><em>To Be Continued...<br>_


End file.
